For Grave, previously 'For Warrick'
by happyharper13
Summary: All is not as it seems when Nick, with Greg's help, investigates Warrick's murder and learns something about friendship. Hostages, threatening phone calls, kidnapping, a mysterious stranger, a mole, CW, GS and lots of mystery, suspense and angst for all.
1. 1 Prologue

This story's a bit slow at first -- I like to establish all the character development, et al. Please give it a try though. I promise it gets a lot more intense and angsty (see description)

Summary: Catherine can't handle the death of a close friend - who she saw, potentially, as something more, while Grissom is guilt stricken by a second loss he feels he should have been able to prevent and Greg tries to live up to Warrick's example as Nick's righthand man. Reactions clash when Nick, with Greg's help, tries to solve the case, putting the whole team in danger.

Features threatening phone calls, moles, hostages, mysterious strangers, some major Greggo angst and, first and foremost, lots of suspense and mystery.

NickGreg Friendship, NickWarrick Friendship, SaraGreg Friendship, unrequited Sandle, implied GSR, YoBling, with some Wedges on the side, and lab rats in all their Sci-Fi nerd glory.

Thanks to racefh853629 for beta-ing.

Pay attention for one or more characters acting slightly OOC and/or doing things that don't fit in with canon. These are clues for later in the story.

* * *

**PROLOGUE**

**PRESENT**

Grabbing his leg, Greg screamed after the departing Denali, desperately hoping it would turn around. It was to no avail. He heard another shot, and screamed as it entered his shoulder. _Trust Gedda's thugs to know how to shoot this good – to leave you hanging, alive and in pain – and shoot in the right place so that you stay alive long enough to feel the pain _and_ the fear. _But Greg Sanders knew who the mole was.

Growing hazier by the second, he looked around to see the three men nearing. He shuddered, still clutching his leg. He knew he was no match for them. Feeling for his gun, he pondered his only two options: to let them take him away, where he would be subject to unspeakable pain, or to deny them the chance. He stared down at his gun. _How had it all come to this? _ he wondered.

* * *

**TWO WEEKS EARLIER**

Grissom was exhausted.

Too many nights – not that he would call it too many – spent worrying about Sara had left him drained.

While he had pulled all strings possible to help Warrick back in the day, when the Holly Gribbs incident had exploded in his face and later when a judge tried to send him on a despicable blackmailed cover-up operation to conceal a sex crime, the last three years had seen him with significantly less of the energy available to spend on individual CSI's personal problems.

Unfortunately, it was those last three years that Warrick needed – or rather, Gil realized, had needed – him the most. Warrick was dead now and any help was too late, as only Gil, at the moment knew.

He continued to count down the seconds, stringing out the time before he had to unleash the news on the team, by, in true Gil Grissom nature, being lost in thought.

The last three years had seen many trying times for the team and it was, Grissom reminded himself, inevitable that he couldn't have put all energy into rescuing his longlost CSI from himself.

Yet, in the back of his mind, a lingering voice reminded him of what he'd done to help Sara Sidle, the love of his life, in that time. Perhaps he had dedicated more resources, more brainpower, more invested his whole self in the pursuit of her kidnapper. But, at the same time, that was what he did. Sara's fall from grace fell more directly into the category of solvable crime.

Warrick's unwinding life had fallen less into this category. His marriage, though a mistake, was no crime, even Tina's supposed infidelity. And the drug issues that Nick had, as a last resort to bring his buddy back to his real self, so urged Grissom to help Warrick alleviate, were not a matter that could be investigated and solved, at least not to improve Warrick's situation.

FLASHBACK TO SCENE WITH NICK AND GRISSOM

_Grissom had been hiding in his office, escaping the stress of a redball, finally closed out with the persistent work of Greg Sanders, along with occasional well-timed appearances by Warrick and mentorly advice from Catherine._

_Grissom had been somewhat out of it for the whole case, so Warrick's periodic and inexplicable absences had hardly elicited his notice. Ultimately, Warrick's was not the absence that Grissom noticed: it was Sara's. _

_Sara Sidle had been gone for a few months, yet, to Grissom, some days it felt like years and, on others, it felt like it was yesterday that she had kissed him goodbye before reaching her taxi, walking out of his life leaving only a letter and her namesake bumble bee. _

_Grissom and Sara had spent many a day off – not that they had many – in front of the bee colony. Sara hadn't initially been a bee person, but it did not take too much encouragement from Grissom to convert her._

_Though she was the queen of his heart, it was not the queen bee that bore her name, but one of the worker bees. While the queen bee was responsible for the population, it was the female worker bees that protected it. While two baby queen bees fought for control of the hive, the worker bees stung – and died, as their stinger cost them their lives – for the good of the hive. The drones, on the other hand, simply mated and died. It was the worker bees the kept the hive going. Infertile and well-fed, they were motivated not by primal instincts but by the apocritan system of order, protection and – dare she say it – family and community._

_Hence, Sara joked, there was never any need for Crime Scene Investigators in the honeycomb world. It was all, Grissom punned back, so sweet. Too sweet, he reflected with mirth. Too sweet to last, as Sara was long gone and bee colonies were dying out in rapid numbers._

_The bee that bore her name had, ironically, been introduced in its attempt to sting Grissom's lovely girlfriend. As Sara approached the hive for the first time, an unfamiliar and suspicious new figure to the bees, Sara the bee had been the first out of the hive on the pre-emptive defensive, lunging for the CSI. It was only by luck, and, in retrospect, too many hours spent not with significant people but on the mastery of the hives, that Grissom managed to catch the little worker bee before she had a chance to sting, and to die._

_After a few worried seconds in which Sara the CSI swung her hands around – frantically, yet, to Gil, gracefully – and in which Sara the Bee frantically darted around in the net, Sara the CSI peered down at her would-be attacker, straight through the aggression to the bee's loyalty and bravery. Sara Sidle was already in love with Gil Grissom, but it was in that second that she fell in love with his new collection of honey bees, and in that second that he knew they could make it in the long run. _

_As Grissom ruefully remembered his favorite honey, once again letting his reports remain in disorganized piles of blank paper on his desk, that Nick interrupted his thoughts, knocking cautiously on the shut door._

_Grissom could see Nick's feigned diplomacy as soon as the young CSI opened the door, even as he didn't know what exactly the request would be. _

_"Griss?"_

_Grissom replied with a curt nod. _

_"I came to talk about Warrick"_

_Grissom responded with his trademark quizzical look._

_"You haven't noticed?" Nick said with slight shock._

_"Noticed what?"_

_"Heh" Nick let out an exasperated sigh. 'Why do I even bother,' he thought to himself. His patience was already wearing thin with the one person he thought capable of correcting the situation and his best friend's misery. He shook his head._

_"You expect me to be psychic?" Grissom asked, with greater impatience than he intended. _

_Letting all guises of diplomacy fly out the window, and recognizing before he'd finished his sentence that he's just blew his chance of having his wish granted, Nick let out, just a notch under yelling, "No Griss, I actually expect you to pay attention to your team. And when I mean 'your team,' I mean _current_ members, that is not ones that walked out months ago, that is _not Sara Sidle!_"_

_Grissom responded with a glare. "What do you want Nick? I don't have time for your mood swings on top of Catherine's oblivion to all standards of proper work attire, Wendy asserting her ambition to move up to CSI but spending every spare minute in Trace flirting with _Hodges_ of all people, Dave repeating the same lame jokes about _sexual abuse_, Henry's inability to ask or state anything with directness and confidence and without looking terrified, Archie's penchant for watching God-knows-what on those video cameras while nobody's around, Greg blasting disgusting music, telling us all about his disgusting hobbies and compromising evidence, --" _

_Grissom looked up in the middle of his thoroughly unexpected and uncharacteristic rampage to see Nick looking slightly terrified. Realizing he had just attacked just about every single member of his team, when all he really meant was 'I miss Sara and there's a little too much work to do, especially with one less team member to do it,' he looked up again apologetically._

_Gently, he asked, "What is it you want, Nick?"_

_"I was hoping you could check on Warrick. He's seemed really off lately."_

_Grissom huffed. 'Seemed off' wasn't exactly enough to warrant an intervention on his part, and he was hardly the gushy motherly counselor Dr. Phil type with excess time on his hands to help his team sort through marital woes or personal insecurities. _

_He had thought his team knew that his role as supervisor and general paternal figure ended at just about all things related to emotions, well except for with Sara… _

_He liked to think he'd done a pretty decent job helping with her insecurities since the DUI incident, but then again, she had taken off after all, so his inability to help the love of his life through personal problems was just further inabilities for why he had chosen the silent dead and their tangible evidence over living human beings and their ever-evolving, complex and often incomprehensible emotions and personal problems. _

_He thought that members of his team would be the first to realize that. And weren't these kind of things was Catherine was for?_

_"Nick," he began gently._

_"Oh, come on Griss. He's a member of your team. He –"_

_"What makes you think _I_ can solve his problems for him?" Grissom cut in curtly. He did have all of these papers on his desk to sort through, and National Geographic was showing the first annual live cockroach races from a convention he had been to busy to attend. It would be streaming soon, and he hoped to finish in time to catch it off of his computer _at home_ by 9. It sounded selfish, but it was one of the few joys left in Gil Grissom's life with the departure of his soulmate. _

_"I'm not asking you to- well I am. I mean, well I guess –" Nick fought over his words for a few seconds before continuing: "I'm just asking you to try Griss. You miss 100 of the opportunities you don't take, eh?"_

_"That's too clichéd to be a good quote, so don't try."_

_Nick laughed at his disgruntled supervisor and secretly thanked his stars for the levity, hoping it gave Grissom the push to go help Warrick. "Fine, you're the quotemaster."_

_Grissom cast a small smile, before querying of the matter at hand. "So what exactly are you most concerned about with Warrick? We are CSIs, so what _evidence_ do you have that something is wrong?" _

_Nick recounted the graphic details of Warrick's problems as best he could -- which wasn't much given Warrick's secretive ways of late. _

_"He's been having problems with his marriage."_

_"Who doesn't?"_

_Stumped, Nick replied, "Well, it sure seems worse than my parents's marriage…"_

_"Hardly a large enough sample size to quantify evidence," Grissom returned._

_"Fine, but what about the pills?" asked Nick. "That's a problem. That really is a problem."_

_"The pills?" Gil looked up, puzzled. It was obvious this was the first he'd heard of drug issues of the trusted CSI 3. Gambling issues, yes. But pills? 'Jeez,' Grissom thought. His team really was the mess that the Undersheriff called them. _

_"Uppers and downers," Nick bluntly stated. "He's takin' pills to fall asleep at night and more to stay awake and functional during the day. And God knows what else he's taking. He wouldn't even tell me."_

_Grissom could see the hurt in Nick's eyes. He and Warrick used to be so close. He'd always imagined telling one important piece of information to one and it'd be off to the other in a matter of hours. They were two peas in a pod, the way they bet on everything, from sports teams to cases. Peas in a pod, destined for Vegas CSI. _Gil shuddered at the recollection. Now one pea was underground, and the other would soon be heartbroken, scavenging for pieces to convince himself and the rest of the world that it wasn't really so.

Grissom hadn't done anything to remedy the situation. With the heartfelt conversation, he reiterated the need for professional help, were any action to be taken, or in the very least, to consult Catherine about it. Nick disagreed, arguing that Catherine was in fact, or at least could be part of the problem, as he always thought he saw some hidden chemistry between the two, to which Grissom was again oblivious. Whatever the relationship between Warrick and Catherine, Nick hypothesized, could have exacerbated problems in Warrick's marriage, which no doubt played a role in the man's other personal problems. And that's where Grissom had cut Nick off. That's the part of the conversation that Gil Grissom really regretted, the part that, had he listened to Nick, honestly, desperately, miserably made him wonder if Warrick would still be alive.

In his guilt-stricken mind, stuck playing the episode again and again on repeat, the answer was always yes.

_"The citizens of Clark County, Nevada," Grissom announced_, condescendingly, arrogantly, he thought, after the fact,_ "do not pay us to meddle in the marital lives of coworkers. They are not paying for every hour we decide to play "Dear Abby." _

_"Pay?! You're gonna be talking about pay?! What about Sara? Don't tell me you didn't put in more than county pay saving her! And what about that DUI?! You think I didn't hear about _that?!_ Whether you like it or not – and I'd say most of the time you seem to like it – this isn't just a job. It's a family, so don't act surprised that I found about you're 'counseling,' shall we say, and keepin' it off her record. And don't tell me you never skirted county rules savin' her ass! I guess the difference is her ass is more worth savin' to you than Warrick's is, huh? That's it right boss, that's it."_

_"Nick. That's enough. Don't bring Sara into this"_

_"_You_ made it about her when you became a part of the conversation._" Ouch. "Everything_ for you is about her because 'at's all you ever think about. Don't deny it, Griss." _He wasn't really lying.

_"Let's bring this back to the topic at hand."_

_"Yeah. Let's"_

_"If you're so adamant that something should be done, then why can't you do it, Nick? I think we've already established that this is not my cup of tea."_

_"Easy. I already tried and you're the daddy on this team."_

_Grissom gave Nick a quizzical look._

_"Okay, I guess that makes what you've got with Sara kinda wrong." Grissom grimaced as Nick fumbled for words. "But you're the mentor. You're the team guardian. Whether you like it or not, you solve the problems here. I already tried solving it, and we already went over why Cath can't. Sara's out of the picture, and Greg- well,… I just can't see him doin' it. He'd outtalk Warrick while tryin' to get it sorted out and end up getting' nowhere, plus he's still kinda out of it since the Demetrius James thing.'"_

_"Everyone on this team's 'kinda out of it' for some reason or the other."_

_"Fine, but you agree with me that Greg's not the man for this."_

_"Yes, I can agree that having our very single latex-loving surfer dude play marriage counselor to Warrick and Tina might not be the wisest course of actions. But that doesn't change the fact that this isn't a matter for county LVPD staff to be solving in their spare time."_

_"Oh come on. Like you've never used county clock time to do something other than processing scenes and directly related paperwork. You know I'm right."_

_"What you need to be knowing," Grissom slowly started, "is that this conversation is over. Encourage Warrick to get help? Fine. I won't stand in your way."_

_"Oh come on man!"_

_"No. Conversation over. I have work to do, and the crime rate's not slowing down any time soon, so I suspect you do too. Get to work Nick. I've already told Warrick that he needs to deal with his personal problems off of the clock. There's no reason for you to be butting in and fighting his battles for him, and with the county. I'm sorry Nick. I really am. But there's just not anything that I, of all people, can do about it." _Now I **really** am sorry Nick. I'm so sorry.

Grissom had done no more about Warrick's supposed problems until he got the call in from the Undersheriff. There was a 419 by the diner where the team had just ate. It would be an entirely covert investigation and no one from LVPD would be involved. Because it was one of their team. One of the CSIs. Because it was Warrick.

Grissom continued to wait, apologizing to Nick in his mind and counting down until the minute he could wait no longer to tell his team of their fallen friend.

* * *

Greg Sanders began taking over "best friend" duties for Nick Stokes years ago. As Warrick occasionally dabbled in the worlds Sin City was best known for – Vegas's underbelly stuffed with gambling houses, at its most mundane, the more conservative Texan increasingly turned to the newer, younger and – as much as they laughed at the implications – in some ways hipper CSI 1 who was, if nothing else, always up for fun.

And fun they had.

Much of the time, it was just hanging out at diners after shift, sometimes even those establishments Vegas was more known for. Once Greg had even introduced Nick to the music he described as quality, buying last minute tickets when Marilyn Manson came to Vegas.

After one too many drives to crime scenes letting Greg pick out the music, and certainly after then-lab tech Greg let his music drown out the possibilities of the exhausted CSI's locker room catnaps between double shifts, Nick insisted his ears would never again be graced by the supposed "art" of yelling. After all, that's what he had Ecklie and, on her bad days, Sara, for.

Nonetheless, after getting turned down by Warrick for the fifth time in a week to hit the Strip old day style, Nick consented to a concert with his chatty second resort, and, though he complained later, he had to admit that even "The Dope Show" and "Tainted Love," combined with the company of the wacky and garrulous metalhead, beat out another night at home alone.

The concert had been decent. Nick only felt slightly out of place. Okay, that was an exaggeration. "Lone Star State" gained whole new meaning at the concert; while he wasn't exactly the star of the event, he felt like he stood out quite a bit – maybe even going as far as to say he "shined" – as one of the only people not wearing black, and most of all, most likely the "lone" country music fan. To say he felt out of place with the heavy metal music was a mild understatement.

He missed the old days when he could go out with Warrick to share a love of more melodic music, and of the basic Vegas values of beer, bets and women. Though Nick was on the conservative side, even Texas instilled his love in a good Sin City time. Greg's idea of a good time, however, was a bit different.

With Greg, Nick could at least share a love of booze, porn and sports. Greg's California roots made him an easy target for all sports rivalries, from big screen TV matches at bars to Madden on the nerdy former lab tech's new PS2.

Though Greg came across as wacky and wild, at least while he was in the lab, his personality had toned down significantly and he wasn't nearly as much fun for Nick to hang out with than Warrick. Nonetheless, he was reliable, and that was the best Nick could hope for at the moment. He knew that what he told Greg stayed secret.

Furthermore, unlike most of the regular population residing in the Vegas time zone, Greg was awake at pretty much all hours of the day, including, most importantly, hours after shift when everyone else was either working or sleeping, and rarely turned Nick down.

That said, oddly enough, Greg would occasionally have urgent commitments at far-off hours. Every once in a while, the new field mouse had crucial plans at ridiculous hours, and for long stretches of time. When he finally confessed that it was researching his book, Nick only shook his head. His new friend was a weird one, turning down tickets to the big game to work on writing a book. His interests were certainly not the same as Warrick's.

* * *

She walked out smiling.

"If you ever need anyone to talk to, you know how to get a hold of me, huh?"

She couldn't contain her excitement in that last statement to the man she thought she's been waiting years for; for whom she thought, with the divorce and final exculpation, she would finally be done waiting.

Catherine Willows very rarely stuttered, but as she rushed through the statement, her emotions got the better of her. She was exhilarated not only by the culminating events of the night, but by nerve – an unusual state for the brash former stripper –, and she wondered at Warrick's ability to make out every word.

Yet it described perfectly her tense reaction to the earlier events – the realization that, after years of casual flirtation and what she thought was more chemistry than that with other male colleagues, friends and even suspects, she might never in fact be with Warrick, and, equally importantly, that now she was set on doing something about it, with that one supportive sentence and, more importantly, that kiss on the cheek that meant so much more than her coworkers imagined.

She walked out of the diner smiling, assuming that Warrick, one of the men who knew her best, knew what that last kiss goodnight meant.


	2. 2 Unfortunate Phone Calls

Next chapter up. Reviews, once again, are greatly appreciated. This is my first fanfic and I would love any feedback, including constructive criticism. If you review my story, I'll review yours :)

And I promise, there will be more angst and suspense to come. Threats, moles, mysterious eavesdroppers, kidnappings, murder and more clues to come. This ends up becoming a bit of a conspiracy theory, investigation a la Nick and Greg, for the whole Gedda/Warrick story arc.

Enjoy :)

Harper

* * *

**Chapter 2: Unfortunate Phone Calls**

It was time to get the word out. It was. It really was.

Grissom picked up the phone. Nick's number was on speed dial. All it took was a number. He rehearsed the conversation in his head.

_"I'm sorry Nick. There's been an accident."_

Then what would Nick ask?

"Did Nigel Crane escape from jail?" "Had the lab blown up again?" "Another round of those punks beatin' tourists?" Grissom imagined Nick's concern for Greg, at the implications of the latter two.

The older CSI had taken on an almost older brotherly role for his younger friend, yet it seemed, at times, like Greg was the more mature of the two. In fact, lately it seemed like that a lot, at least since Greg had been spending time in the field.

Nonetheless, the two always seemed to be hanging out. It had been good that they had each other, especially in the wake of the horrors of the last few years.

He was glad that Greg had someone to support him after the Demetrius James incident – even though Grissom would have preferred if Nick had managed to find an alternate means of supporting Greg that did not involve punching bystanders in the stomach.

He was also glad that they'd had each other to lean on when Sara left. In retrospect, Grissom almost wished he had taken Nick up on his offer of support as well.

He knew that Sara and Greg were close, that his girlfriend had been Greg's mentor as he learned the ropes of fieldwork, and after. Meanwhile, Nick's support of Greg was no doubt invaluable and had kept Greg relatively in line after his mentor's departure, aside from one oddly placed hallway snipe.

Perhaps, Grissom wondered, that strong support would get him out of at least one phone call. Nick was close enough to Greg that perhaps one phone call could satisfy both. Perhaps either one could more delicately relay the news to the other than Grissom could to both. Grissom knew he would already be emotionally exhausted after the first phone call. Multiply that by five team members.

Five. He laughed at himself ruefully. The laughter was a nice break, but the gravity of the situation was not lost. He had no five team members to call. He had four to call, to inform them of why, in fact, the fifth one would not be receiving the call. How could he, to learn that he was dead?

Grissom became increasingly aware of just how sleep-deprived he was. Too tired to think anymore of the most emotionally efficient relay call strategy, he instead went with the number he would never need speed dial for, the one that came naturally to him, and who he knew could help him think clearly enough to handle the situation at hand: Sara.

* * *

"Hey Greggo," she said tiredly, dreading the task at hand. Grissom had urged her to break the news to the youngest teammate. Though he was the youngest, she had a feeling he would handle it the best. In addition to being the least close to Warrick, he had been significantly more toned down lately, since he started working in the lab.

'Especially since the beating,' she thought with chagrin. Actually, it seemed like he'd first calmed down a little after the explosion at the lab. 'Poor Greggo,' she cried to herself. 'This lab is taking away pieces of him.' All the former lab tech's energy and enthusiasm for life, and the spontaneous and bizarre, seemed to be gradually seeping out of him, like an hourglass, and at every instance of hardship, a little more tumbled through too fast.

"Fancy hearing your voice. At this hour." He coughed. Intentionally.

'Ok, so he hasn't lost all of the old Greggo,' she smiled to herself, then straightened up, remembering the news she was responsible for delivering.

"There's something Gil- err Griss wanted me to tell you."

_Funny, no quip in return. Maybe he has lost the old Greggo._

"Yes?"

"It's about Warrick."

"Oh." His voice softened significantly. He was bracing himself for the blow, she thought.

"He's dead."

"How- wait- ha – what?! How?!" he stuttered.

"He was shot. In the parking lot. By that diner, the one the team ate at."

"Huh-Who's investigating? Do we have to see the body?"

"IAB, or actually… I think the Feds are investigating… or it might be day shift… I don't know. And no," she sniffed, "we don't have to see the body"

"But you're sure he's really dead?"

Sara was puzzled at his questions, but assumed it was just a normal stage of grief.

"Yeah. I'm sure. I'm sorry Greg."

"Has someone told Nicky?"

"Uh… no –"

"You want me to do it?"

"Thanks so much. I can't believe –"

"I know."

She could see Greg pursing his lips over the phone, the tears falling out.

After choking back what sounded like a sob, he spoke, so quietly she could barely make out what he said. But after years as Greg Sanders' mentor, she could always figure out what Greg was saying, no matter how bizarre. And this was not at all bizarre.

"Thanks Sara."

"Bye Greg."

* * *

"Willows," was the groggy answer on the other line.

Nick may be – have been – Warrick's best friend, but this was the call he was dreading most, not because he feared getting yelled at for not taking action, as he did with Nick, nor because he couldn't imagine the emotional outpour, because he could for both, but because the woman, his right hand, and really also his left hand, and eyes and ears at the lab half the time, not to mention loyal confidante… he shuddered… because she had already been through so much in the last year.

She'd already lost her father in the past year, and, perhaps worse, almost lost her daughter. He knew how Catherine agonized over trying to raise her daughter, safely and well, in Las Vegas, while working grave shift for LVPD. To see her daughter's life put on the line over Sam Braun's mistakes had been terrifying, to say the least, for the now-single mom. He shuddered at the Catherine's impending horrified reaction to the fact that the man she loved, as Nick had pointed out to him not so subtly that day, was gone too.

Yet Grissom knew that, for all Catherine's grief, she had learned to cope with it. Who better to deal with grief than Catherine Willows?

That was it. The phone was up, shaking with his trembling hands. He certainly couldn't have had Sara make this call. It had to come straight from him.

"Catherine. It's about Warrick."

She was already crying.

* * *

"Stokes –" replied the groggy voice.

"Hey Ni –"

"Greg. Why the hell are you calling this late?!" Nick blasted, though knowing full well he had summoned the former lab rat at all hours for nights on the town, or, more often, video game marathons. But still, the difference was that Greg was always awake, or so it seemed. Nick was willing to guess that Greg, unlike the rest of them, slept right after shift, rather than before it.

"Nick. Slow down. I wouldn't be calling you at this hour if it weren't really important."

"Important? Uh-"

"Nick. I have some news. Make sure you're sitting down. In fact, why don't you get a drink first?"

"Greg, just get to it."

"Seriously, Nick. You're not gonna like what I have to say."

"Come on Greg. After everything that's happened in the last week with Warrick, you think there's anything worse you can say to make my week suck much more, aside from you sayin' you're gonna, like, wake me up this way _every_ morning. It's 4 o'clock in the afternoon, buddy, and I'm still nursin' a hangover from celebratin' my best friend gettin' out of jail, someplace he never should have been in the first place." Nick was talking faster and faster.

"Nick, calm down. I – Warrick didn't make it home last night."

"Whad'ya mean, he didn't make it home last night. I saw him walk out the damn door. Now stop pullin' my strings Greggo. This ain't funny. He just got _out_ of jail. He just got _out_ of trouble. He's fine. He's…" His voice dwindled as the implications of Greg's words hit him.

"I'm sorry Nick –"

"Naw, naw," Nick shook his head, his Texas drawl kicking in more than ever. "Rick's not dead. He's – HE'S NOT DEAD! YOU HEAR ME?! HE'S NOT DEAD!" He yelled into the phone, breaking down into tears.

"Nick. I know you're upset."

"Damn right I'm upset. I'm –" Nick's words, or attempts at words, were lost in tears again.

"If you need someone to talk to, if you need anything, you know I'm always here for you."

"Always here for me. Always here for me?! That was supposed to be Warrick!" Nick croaked out as he slammed down the receiver and head butted his pillow. He covered his eyes and sobbed himself to sleep, still not believing one word Greg had said.


	3. 3 Initial Reactions

Thanks for reading. And, not to be needy, but please review. It would make me very happy (and update quicker). If you review my story, I'll review yours :) And I promise the story gets more angsty and suspenseful later on.

thanks,

harper

* * *

**Chapter 3: Initial Reactions**

Scenes played forward in Nick's mind:

Watching his best friend sit in jail.

Being turned down yet again because Warrick was busy, with who knew what.

Back in the day, when they used to bet on scenes; trying to figure out who was responsible when a car tipped over the edge of a cliff.

The pills. Watching Warrick down those pills like they were nothing. The look, or rather lack there of, lack of guilt, lack of remorse, at the pills. But Nick could still sense his remorse. He could still sense Warrick's realization, Warrick's acquiescence. Acquiescing to the loss of the former Warrick. Warrick not putting up a fight, not doing anything more than acknowledge that he was, in fact taking both "uppers and downers," as Nick had put it. But he was acknowledging more than that.

It was seeing his best friend give up. Nick knew it the way he knew everything about Warrick, or at least he thought he knew.

And it wasn't about the pills. Nick had taken plenty a pill himself over the course of his life, especially after the coffin, but it was the look on Warrick's face, the nonchalance with which he threw the pills back into his mouth, that had Nick scared. The way, when Nick began to ask questions, he only replied, "What's it to you?"

He hadn't replied then. He hadn't said "It's everything to me," because… well, he didn't know why. Really, it was because he hadn't known then that Warrick would be dead, dead for reasons Nick suspected were at least vaguely related to the reason he was taking those pills. Reasons related to the downward spiral his best friend had been headed down since he married Tina.

_Best friend_. That was it. That should have been his answer. _"What's it to me, Warrick? It's everything because you're my best friend. Because I care about you," _Nick said to the air around him. Warrick couldn't hear his reply, and that's what hurt the most.

But he wouldn't drown out the pain the way Catherine was doing. He wouldn't wallow in his office like Grissom. He wouldn't – well he didn't know quite what Greg was doing, other than helping him, but that was just because Greg wasn't quite so close to Warrick. He had only been a lab tech back in the day. Back in the good old days. The good old days when everything was right in the lab. When this kind of drama just didn't happen. Back when the most serious drama on the team consisted of a secretive surgery Grissom had to correct benign, noncontagious, boring old ear loss. Man, how he missed those days.

Him and Warrick, competing over getting to CSI 3 first. Him and Warrick, betting on cases, not to the awareness of anyone else. Him and Warrick. Best friends forever, as mushy as it sounded. Warrick would have laughed at such mushiness. Warrick was never a mushy guy. He was the tough one. While the Texan was the hopeless romantic, Warrick was the realist. Vegas born and bred. Raised on the gambling houses and straight-up Vegas life.

Warrick. Nick remembered, as the team had reflected, in the wake of Greg's beating, about growing up in Vegas. Catherine had jokingly scolded them for their pessimism, reminding them she was raising a teenager in Vegas. Warrick replied, _"Well I grew up in Vegas, and I didn't turn out so bad, now did I?"_ _No, _Nick thought. _You didn't turn out so bad. But then you turned out dead._

Nick chuckled. _What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas_. Warrick stayed in Vegas. Warrick would always be Vegas. Nick wondered if now was a good time for a change in scenery. Why was he here, with his best friend gone? With Sara gone too? He had never quite appreciated the brunette just as much as he did now, but he could look back on fond memories with her. Intense, friendship-forming memories. The simple sentence, 'It wasn't your time to die,' that spoke so much for both of them. Yet it didn't speak enough of Warrick.

That was Warrick. Warrick, his best friend. Warrick, his partner in crime, and more importantly in solving it. Crime. This was a crime. This was an awful crime! Why was Nicholas Stokes, best friend of the recently deceased, just sitting there on his ass lost in thought over the terrible loss.

Ordinary civilians would wait and grieve, but he was a Crime Scene Investigator. There was no waiting for someone else to find out what had happened so he could have his closure. That was his job.

And, in all honesty, it gave him something to do. If someone else investigated Warrick's death, Nick would be on their tail every second of every day, probably even when they slept, given that he was grave shift, begging for every last piece of information they could find on his dear departed friend.

Pushing himself off the bed, and sweeping the scrunched up Kleenexes from a night of crying to the side, he threw himself out of bed, knowing that was what would keep him going. And once he got going, there was no stopping Nick Stokes.

The least he could do for his late best friend was find his killer, as clichéd as it sounded.

* * *

Nick Stokes had no awareness of waking up. He did not remember reluctantly pushing himself out of bed, and trudging slowly to his car.

He did not remember making the same familiar turns he had made so often.

He did not remember pulling up to the familiar apartment, pulling out his keys from the ignition as he always did, and gingerly reaching for the door handle, as if he were, once again, preparing to enter the same home to jovially traverse with a best friend.

His mental abilities returned to him when his mind registered the sleek black Buicks, familiar in an entirely different way, parked as stealthily as possible next to the apartment, camouflaged in the night. _Feds. The Feds were at Warrick's apartment._

* * *

"Sanders"

"Hey Greg," came the groggy voice on the other end.

"Um, hey Nick" Greg carefully maneuvered over the phone, knowing that this could well be one of the harder conversations of his life, right next to their last one, where he'd relieved the news of their friend's death.

"Uh… did, err, who did you get the news from?"

"The news –"

"The news"

"Yeah, I know, I know. I'm sorry Nick. I really am –"

"I know Greg. I still can't believe it, but I really need something to do right now, to get my mind off of it. Who'd you find out about it from?"

"How will knowing that get your mind off of it?"

"You know what I mean."

"Nick, you're just digging yourself a deeper hole –" said Greg, who had a feeling

he knew what was coming next, and who also wanted to spare Sara the added pain.

"I'm an investigator. You know how my mind works. Maybe just sittin' and grievin' is helping you along, but I need to get the details – the details on everything – and that starts with whoever told you. Going through the phone tree and gettin' all the details. And finally findin' out who'd want to…" he shivered "kill Warrick." Nick took a deep breathe. "That's my way o' findin' closure."

Realizing it was best to stay on Nick's good side, and to at least know what was going on in his head, if Greg hoped to keep his grieving friend out of trouble, he relented. "I got it from Sara. But don't do anything more in the way of investigating until I get there. I'll meet you at your place and bring over the newspaper clippings."

Surprised by Greg's answer and his quick decision to help, Nick fell back on his pillow and waited.

* * *

Greg pulled his Jetta in to the familiar driveway, spotting the closed curtains and neatly cut grass. Nick was the kind of friend that would start going stir-crazy and cleaning after hearing the news. He was the kind of guy that needed something to do every second to stop him from thinking of Warrick, and to eventually come to peace with his friend's spiral down.

Greg slowly opened the door and turned off his softest rock album. He drudged up the stares, knowing he had no choice but to go through with it. It didn't make it any easier.

He knocked on the door, twice before waiting a second and delivering the third. It was a secret knock Nick had adopted after the Nigel Crane incident.

Nick always preferred when his friends used the knock, to save him from extra stress and paranoia, not to mention from answering the door for every passing Jehovah's Witness that missed the large "No Solicitation" sign on his door.

Working Grave Shift made those solicitors especially annoying to the tired Texan, though after a double shift, even they couldn't wake him, no matter how many times they rung the bell.

Greg was tempted to just pick the lock, a skill he had mastered over the course of his life, and especially his years living in college and a shared house post-grad, but figured it wouldn't exactly help the Texan's feelings of security. The same thought went to using the key Greg knew was placed, well hidden, buried in the flowerpot that hung from the ceiling above the front door.

Glancing around and observing the neighborhood goings-on, Greg waited for the door to finally open, revealing his crestfallen buddy.

Despite his well-kempt lawn, Nick was more disheveled than Greg had ever seen him – and that counted his hideous mustache of earlier days. Nick's eyes were puffy and tear-stained, though the look on his face was decidedly determined. That was the part of the look that most worried Greg.

"Thanks buddy"

"No problem. How've you been holding up?"

Nick just sighed. "I can't believe he's gone."

"None of us can."

"What happened? I mean…" Nick looked up at Greg, searching less for the answer, of what led to his buddy being found dead, who knows where, that he knew would not come that day, and more for confirmation of his utter shock at the end result of those events, that left the world and Grave Shift without a coworker and, more importantly, a friend.

Greg shook his head. "It sucks."

"Yeah, it really does," Nick said, anger in his voice suddenly mounting on the last word. "I mean, how _did_ this happen. What the hell?! Who would kill Warrick?!" He had meant to go through this meeting without more crying, but he yet again found himself choking back yet another sob. "Warrick, man.. buddy, where are ya? Why'd you have to go and die?"

Greg watched his friend lose himself to tears yet again.

_This is gonna be a long night. _

Greg went into the kitchen as his friend wept, and pulled out a Kleenex, handing it to his friend as he re-entered the room. He draped a blanket around Nick's shoulders, though the gesture was barely acknowledged as Nick remained lost in thought and tears.

"I'm sorry buddy, I'm so sorry," Greg said softly to the lump in front of him, covered in blankets and barely moving. Nick's face was obstructed by shaking hands. Though the lump betrayed no noises, Greg knew it was silently still sobbing.

"It's gonna be alright Nick. I promise. It's gonna be alright."

The lump's head registered a slight nod before seeping back into its hands.

* * *

Nick woke up to find Greg snoozing quietly on the couch, mouth open and grumbling lightly in his sleep. As Nick stretched his legs, looping his hands behind him to break the kinks in his back, deserved from falling asleep on the un-reclined recliner chair, it was almost easy for Nick to pretend everything was alright; that they were living in the past, before the death of his buddy; that he and Greg were still resting in the wake of a video game-playing marathon and everything really was alright.

But the uncomfortable position of Nick's back reminded him that he had, in fact, not pushed the recliner chair back as he normally did, and the tissues covering the chair, accompanied by a decidedly unstuffy nose, reminded him that he had spent many of the past 24 hours crying.

Greg's mouth had contorted, stretched as if halfway between a yawn and a scream, and his face bore a pained expression. _'Probably dreaming 'bout the same thing I was,'_ Nick thought.

Warrick really had died. He knew it. He was ready to accept it. Almost.

Greg turned in his sleep, letting loose the beginnings of a yawn while stretching his arm toward the end of the couch. His eyes squinted as his head turned, slowly falling on his friend, matching Nick's gaze with a pitying expression.

"You alright?" Greg said through his still-waking, slow-moving state.

"Yeah," Nick said, even as he shook his head.

As he looked at his tired friend more closely, he remembered the question that he'd been waiting to ask after their phone call the last night.

"Who told Sara?"

Greg gave him a confused look.

"Grissom." _Duh._

"Oh."

"Why?"

"Just wondering."

"You're more than just wondering," Greg said, reading his friend perfectly and staring questioningly.

"Yeah. Fine. I just… want to know what happened."

Greg huffed, regaining his awakeness – and frustration – from the previous night.

"What happened… is someone killed Warrick… It's being… investigated. I'm sure you'll be the first to know… when they find something."

"First to know, huh?"

Greg stared at Nick, knowing what was coming next, while hoping his guess was wrong.

"Not first to find?"

Greg grimaced.

Nick spoke slowly. "When you were on the phone with Sara, did she tell you why it is that we're not investigating?"

_Thank goodness. That's an easy question._ "Conflict of interest."

_Duh._ "Well… yeah… I guess that makes sense."

"Yup."

"Dammit!"

Greg looked up at his buddy's sudden explosion.

Nick went on. "How could this have happened?!" Greg let Nick continue on the same rampage from the last night, that would no doubt be repeated. As long as it didn't turn into a different rampage, one bent on stirring up old wounds and digging up old graves.

"What the hell am I supposed to do?! Just sit around here waiting for them to tell me how my best friend died?!"

Greg grimaced again.

"The one thing I _can_ do right, the one thing I _know_ I can do, without any complications, problems, whatever, the one thing I can do consistently… It's my job, dammit! When it finally comes in handy, when it's the most useful thing I could ask for. When being able to investigate crimes matters more to me and my life than anything else, more than the Aggies, or Madden, or even finding missin' children' and solvin' other people's lives – when it's _my best friend_ that we're tryin' to solve and get closure for, I can't do anything?!"

"You know it's department policy Nick."

"Department policy. Yeah, department policy. Screw department policy!"

Greg looked up again, questioningly.

"Who's investigating it anyways. Did Sara tell you that? It happened at night, right after…" Nick sobbed again, as Greg waited for him to regain his composure.

"I think it has more to do with when they're found."

"You _know_ that, you mean. And he was found during the night, cause we just…" Nick sobbed again, as Greg remained stoic.

"It's still a conflict of interest."

"Why are the Feds investigating?"

"The Feds?" Greg looked up, surprised.

"I saw them at his apartment. A whole caravan of them. The Feds are definitely taking over this investigation."

Greg narrowed his eyebrows. "I expected IAB to be taking it."

"It's the Feds."

"If you say so."

"Something's not right."

"What makes you say that?"

"Come'on Greggo. It's the Feds." Nick asked, not believing his ears.

"Eh. I'm sure there's a reason."

"Something fishy's goin' on here."

"What makes you say that?"

"So they make it out to be some not-big deal, like it's just some drive-by shooting, where it doesn't get first page news, and every body on call, a redball, and then they're sending in the Feds?!" Nick's emotion was clearly on the rise in this conversation. "That's just not right. Something's fishy here. Whenever there's this kinda murder here, it's our case. Since when does FBI take over?"

"Since they think it's important. Since Gedda might be part of some national somethin' and maybe it has something to do with Gedda?"

"But _we're_ supposed to figure out if it has something to do with Gedda, not them. The FBI can't go investigatin' every single crime that looks like it's related to gang violence or some other FBI, national priority. Otherwise, they'd solve like a third of the cases in the country or somethin' ridiculous like that. They're supposed to wait for us to figure out whether Gedda might be responsible, and _then we _call it in to _them_. They don't just take it off our hands."

Greg mulled over the implications of Nick's words. "Conflict of interest?" he guessed again, believing his words less than in his previous statement.

"It'd be one thing if it were IAB, which I definitely heard at first it was –"

"Probably got turned over"

"Still. It'd be one thing if IAB were investigating it, given the conflict of interest as Warrick is on our team. Or was," Nick added somberly. "But the Feds aren't supposed to handle conflicts of interest either."

Knowing Nick was right, Greg conceded, "Fine, you're right, but what could you possibly do about it? And why would the FBI take it if they didn't have to, based on the argument you just threw at me. Hmm? The FBI is on our side. They're just probably better disposed to deal with this particular crime –" He cut himself off, knowing that Nick still didn't know how all the details.

"What about this particular crime?! It's a freakin' drive-by shootin'! How much extra evidence can there be that _we_, the second best lab in the country, can't process?"

"And who's the first best lab?"

"The Feds," Nick conceded.

"Exactly. Then there's your answer. I don't _know_ what the other evidence is, but I would be willing to guess that one of a virtually infinite number of reasons why the Feds might have taken over this case is related to the fact that they have superior resources. I mean, if you want the case to get solved, and you want it to get solved quickly, efficiently, whatever, then why not have the most able lab solve it?"

"Fine. You're right."

"Just promise me one thing, Nick"

Having lost the argument in minutes to his younger teammate, Nick looked up, bashfully, at his lounging colleague and nodded.

"If you're gonna start a crusade against the Feds, tell me first. In fact, if you're gonna start a crusade against anybody, tell me. Whether it's against the Feds, LVPD or even your precious Aggies –"

"Aggies?! Why in hell would I want to start a crusade against the Aggies?! I love the Aggies! Hell of a lot more than I love you, ya Falcon fan!"

The atmosphere successfully lightened, Greg gave it another shot. "Oh come on. Now you're switchin' leagues on me."

"Even if the Aggies are only college, we'd _still_ take your Falcons, and sure as hell take your _Cardinals_ any day," the A&M diehard bragged to the Stanford-trained chemist.

"Fine. Fine. Say what you want about my teams, but next vendetta of yours against _any _organization, be it the Cardinals _or _the FBI, you gotta tell me. Got it?"

Nick nodded.

More softly, Greg confessed, "We've already lost one CSI, two if you count Sara. And you guys are more than CSIs. You're my friend. I don't want you doing something stupid. And I don't want to lose another. Friend or colleague."

Nick understood. "But if I go after the Cardinals or Falcons, you're gonna have to kill me first, right?"

Greg smiled villainously. "Yes."

"Okay, I'll keep that in mind."

"Good thinking. And if you get into something," Greg added on a more serious note, "It's better to have the DNA guy on your side, eh?"

"Yeah, you're right."

"In all seriousness, if you're going to do something, I'd rather be there. As wacky as the brilliant chemist may seem, he has a tendency of staying a bit calmer than Superman over here," he joked. "Someone's gotta keep you from bein' too stupid."

Nick nodded somberly, realizing that that would have been Warrick's job. "Sure thing, sidekick. I guess Batman would be a better comparison. Hmm, Robin?"

Greg grinned. "Sure thing."

Greg reached for Madden, and Nick obliged, hoping some mindless screen staring and dodging would help ease the pain.

* * *

Catherine Willows tried to sleep for the first time since hearing the news. As naïve as it was, she hoped that when she woke up, it would all be different.

'How could it not?' she challenged. This was Warrick. As naïve as it sounded, it had to be wrong, because Warrick was her rock.

For her whole life, it had only been a matter of time before Sam Braun got the typical ending of a Vegas gangster.

And Eddie, well,… he was never the most rational, and he'd gotten even less so by the end of his life. And it was just around that time in her life that she'd been getting closer to Warrick. It was funny – okay, maybe not, she choked back ruefully – how Eddie had accused her of sleeping with Grissom, yet it was really Warrick she was lusting after.

And she had thought the lust was mutual, and maybe with something more. But then there had been Tina.

When they divorced, she figured she had to make her intentions more clear, that maybe he didn't know how much she wanted him and that was why, or at least part of the reason, he'd gotten married to that witch in the first place. That diner had felt like the best place to make those intentions known, to start something.

She laughed mirthfully again as the word start flew through her mind. 'The time to start something.' That's what she'd thought as she'd kissed him goodbye. 'More like the time to end something. To say goodbye.'

'Time to say goodbye,' she reiterated to herself. She was more than sufficiently used to the grieving process, and she would push herself through it no matter what. She could handle it.

But for now she silently waved down the bartender for another shot of tequila to ease the pain.

* * *

Nick couldn't believe it. He couldn't. Warrick had been right there, saying goodbye to him, insisting that a free beer was out of the question because what he really needed was a free shower.

A free shower didn't mean a free blood shower.

Nick grimaced at the thought. 'No, of course that's not what Warrick had meant.'

The former quarterback collapsed in tears. 'No this can't be happening.'

Nick couldn't get out of bed. It wasn't real. It wasn't real. It couldn't be real. It just couldn't. He didn't care if all logic said Warrick was dead. He didn't care if this was probably what all – or at least many – grieving friends and relatives went through: denial.

He knew Warrick wasn't dead. He just wasn't. It was Warrick and Warrick was his best friend. He'd gone to the diner that night and invited Warrick out for a beer, like old times. And Warrick was going to take him up on his offer. He just needed a shower. Free shower over free beer. Those had been his words. Or something to that effect.

How was Nick already forgetting his last words with his friend?

But they weren't the last, because he knew, he just _knew_ Warrick wasn't dead. The same way he knew Cassie McBride wasn't dead. The way he knew Sara Sidle wouldn't dead. The team didn't give up on Sara. They didn't give up on anyone. In the very least, he knew, no matter what Greg said, that something was fishy. And he wasn't giving up on Warrick. Friends to the death. He yelled into the kitchen, where he could smell and hear the beginnings of Blue Hawaiian.

"Robin?"

"Batman."

"FBI"

"Uh oh"


	4. 4 Of Broken and Eager Hearts

Once again, reviews would be greatly appreciated. And once again, it will speed up eventually. I have most of the story already written, and I promise there is action later on (and I mean action of all sorts :) ) And muchos thanks to racefh and PisceanPal for beta.

Enjoy ;)

Harper

* * *

**Chapter 4: Of Broken and Eager Hearts**

Greg and Nick met at the lab this time, Greg having left the Madden marathon hours ago to get some sleep.

At the phone call, Greg had realized quickly there was no use dissuading his pig-headed friend. If there was, he would have argued for weeks on end, if need be.

"Okay, first of all, we need a game plan."

Greg could see that his friend had found an adequate method of grieving. He just wished that investigation was not his method, and he worried at the thought of all of the healing and grieving coming undone. Greg glanced around the locker room, checking for potential eavesdroppers. Nick did the same, scanning each side carefully, but nonetheless missing a colleague hidden in the shadows.

Not hearing a response from his partner, the Texan went on. "I say we have three places to start: Griss, Cath and the Feds."

"Not Warrick's? His locker and house seem like the most obvious."

When Nick's face scrunched up in thought, Greg knew he'd won this one.

"Yeah, that makes sense. Do you know the combination for his locker?"

"Uh… no. Not off the top of my head."

"We can't just go breakin' down his locker either. That'll seem suspicious. Know of any subtler techniques to gettin' this thing open?"

"I can give it a try. I have a knack for lock-busting, at least with these basic attachable ones."

Greg put his ear to the locker and proceeded to turn, but got nothing. "That's funny. Most of the time this works."

"How often ya use that skill anyways?"

"Not that often."

"Okay then."

They both sat back down on the locker bench, lost in thought.

"You think there's any chance we can get into the crime scene?"

"I'd say that chance is slightly lower than the chance that they haven't cleaned up the entire scene by now – so about one in a million."

"Seriously?"

Greg nodded.

"The Feds work that fast?"

"When the Feds want something done fast, it gets done fast, especially an old alley way off strip near that dingy old diner, not that I don't love that diner."

Nick processed the new information. "The diner we ate at?"

Greg nodded again.

"Shit. I didn't realize –"

"It's not your fault Nicky."

Nick grimaced to hear Greg call him that. It was a term of closeness, of friendship, and he didn't feel close to anyone now that Warrick was gone.

"Maybe Cath will know more," Nick hypothesized.

"Maybe Cath doesn't want to know more, let alone share anything. Maybe she's just as heartbroken as you are," Greg said pointedly, hoping Nick would get the message.

Which Nick did, in the entirely wrong way. "You're right. She's goin' through the whole same thing too. She'll want to help too. She'll want to know what happened to him just as much as we do."

"You mean she'll want to go _digging up his grave _just as much as we do?" Greg remarked to his friend, who seemed to be growing more pigheaded by the moment.

Nick ignored Greg's last comment. "Let's go. You know where to find her?"

"That old country bar she likes to hang out at. Just up your alley, I'd say," Greg added, cringing at the thought of all-acoustic music with a twang, and too many pick-up trucks for his taste.

Nick flinched, remembering what'd happened last time he went to that particular bar with Catherine. Putting the past behind him, he got off the bench and headed out, Greg following reluctantly behind him.

* * *

The duo could spot Catherine's red hair from the front of the bar, but it was the loud, buffoonish laughter – totally uncharacteristic of their svelte coworker – that caught their attention.

"Is she drunk?" Nick asked.

"Has she been anything else since Warrick died?"

Not knowing the answer, Nick proceeded toward his colleague.

"Cath"

"Oh hey Nicky!" She waved her arms a little too high, turning around and almost stumbling off her bar stool.

"Whoa there," said Nick, catching her halfway to the ground.

"We came here to talk to about Warrick."

_Way to be blunt about it, Batman_, thought Nick's loyal Robin.

Catherine cringed, again less subtly than they normally saw from her. She shook her head vigorously. She did not come to this bar to talk away her troubles, and the loss of the love of her life, or at least who she thought would be, and who was, in the very least, always the thing that got her up in the morning on the worst days, knowing that she'd have a chance to flirt and talk and feel young again around her fellow Las Vegas-bred friend.

Her face contorted and Greg could see the tears coming before they hit the ground.

What he couldn't see coming was Nick's next, again less than smooth remark.

"What do you think he'd say seeing you like this if he were alive?"

"He's not alive"

"What if he was?"

"He's NOT!"

"How do you know that?"

"What do you mean, how do I know that?! HE'S DEAD! It's not like there's some in-between state! You'd think if there's one thing, one single thing, that, as a CSI, you'd get the concept of, it's death!" she said sobbing.

Greg, who'd been hiding in the shadows behind Nick, stepped up quietly. "You'd think that, if there's one thing in this business that we _don't_ understand in this business, it's death."

He lowered his glance to catch Catherine's tear-stained eyes as the woman stared at the floor.

"That's why we keep searching. That's why we still have to _try_ to find the motive every time we investigate. That's why we have a job. Because people _never_ can fully understand death. Least of all us. We see every single possibility for how or why someone can die, and there's _never_ a single formula. People die, yet the possibility and concept of death always baffles us –"

Catherine let out another sob. "But he's _dead. _He's _dead_."

"I know –" Nick said exasperatingly.

"You _know_, then why are we having this conversation? You trying to preserve your denial by inviting me to jump ship too?"

"No, no. That's not what I meant. I know that it looks like he's dead. He just –" seeing Catherine open her mouth, Nick pre-empted her: "Will you _please _let me just finish a sentence, dammit."

"Fine, go ahead and finish your damn sentence Nicky. I'll go ahead and order another shot to filter your bullshit out. I'm guessing I don't need one for you since you have to be pretty damn drunk to be this stupid. Let Greggo 'ere be the designated driver, ay?"

Seeing Nick, growing angrier by the minute, open his mouth, she cut him off again. "Okay, fine. On second thought, I'll order one for you too. Probably easier to stay in your merry little denial boat with a little help from Jose Cuervo, eh?"

"Hey John!" She motioned to a passing waiter – one of many bar staff she'd come to know on a first-name basis in the last week. "My friend here needs one strong Margarita to keep up _this_ show."

John gave her an obliging, somewhat pitying, glance and a nod, heading over to the bar. "Sure thing, Ms. Braun."

Nick fumed for a few seconds, as Catherine stared forlornly and – Greg guessed – drunkenly, into the distance.

"Since when do you go by Ms. _Braun_?" asked Nick. "He's –"

"He's my father and I'm tired of people dying on me," Catherine said, uncharacteristically quiet. "I just want to grieve in peace, for all of them. And I don't need you throwing around conspiracy theories, interrupting my grieving process. I tried that, I really did." Her eyes were pleading with Nick. "I didn't even love Eddie anymore, at least I thought I didn't, but when he died, I still couldn't believe it. I still tried to find something that would contradict the evidence. I was in the middle of the fuckin' mud, knee deep, looking for evidence that some damn car was hijacked, when… when…" She dissolved in tears.

Nick glanced at Greg, confused.

"He came and told me to let it go," she let out with a sob, her composure now completely destroyed.

"Eddie?" Nick asked.

"Warrick" Greg answered.

"Warrick?" The confused ex-best friend queried, disbelieving. "How'd he find you?"

"Shh," Greg said. "It doesn't matter."

"Well it could be a clue –"

"Shut up. It doesn't matter."

Nick gave Greg an irritated look, but closed his mouth.

"He said he used GPS to track the Denali," Catherine whispered between sobs. "He told me to stop. _He_ knew there was no use exacerbating the pain. Digging up the graves. That's not how you heal. He knew," she said letting lose another desperate sob. "He knew."

"We know," said Greg gently, placing a firm hand on Catherine's back and patting her shoulder. "Let's get you home. Being sober will help you with the grieving process too," he cautiously joked.

She let out a teary laugh, relieved by his levity. "Okay. I'm sure he'd appreciate the value of me being rational when I was grieving for him, and at least of not having a hangover. He may have had problems with those pills, but I'd be darned if I ever saw Warrick Brown show up for a shift looking drunk." She let out another sad laugh before letting Greg guide her to the Denali already pulled off outside the bar.

Greg handed John a twenty discreetly before continuing on his way, with Nick and Catherine in tow.

* * *

"Let her sleep off the hangover."

Nick snorted, reluctantly acknowledging the value of Greg's suggestion.

Catherine had joined them at Nick's place, being in no state for driving herself. Nick had hoped that he could once again try convincing Catherine to help them in their quest for more information about Warrick's death.

Greg, meanwhile, was just hoping to help his colleague through her impending headache with the help of his favorite Blue Hawaiian. He may not have always been so disposed toward sharing his coffee – that, after all was why he'd removed even his secret stash from the lab, keeping just enough between his Denali, pockets and locker for the bad days – but whoever called Greg Sanders anything less than a nice guy?

The smell of the delicious coffee threatened to wake the hung-over woman, but Greg moved it away to the counter just in time, as she rolled over and groaned in her sleep, reaching dazedly for the source of the delightful smell.

"Better to sleep through as much of that nasty of a hangover as possible," Greg whispered as he set it down and wrote a note for Catherine, for her to read whenever she woke up, that explained where the coffee was, as well as where Greg and Nick were.

And with that, the duo set off for their next target, hoping that Grissom was harboring neither the same attitudes nor blood alcohol levels. Knowing Grissom, it would be neither, but he would still be just as difficult to persuade. The true scientist, he would demand far more solid evidence then the pair currently possessed to convince him of a conspiracy.


	5. 5 Getting There

**Chapter 5: Getting There**

Grissom sat, relieved, in his office. Relieved for the silence. Relieved that nobody was casting blame around, that, as selfish as he thought it was, no one had yet hinted, as he had openly accused himself constantly in his mind, that Warrick's death had happened on his watch in more than one way.

This, Grissom shamefully pondered, was a true instance of karmic irony. Holly Gribbs had died on Warrick's watch, and Warrick faced the consequences. Now, when it was Warrick dying on Grissom's watch, some higher-up would surely be looking for his head on a tray. And they deserved it.

Sara had said otherwise in many of their recent phone calls in the last week. In fact, Gil worried that, like a bratty teenager sneaking phone calls to their significant other labeled "bad" by parental units, he would have his phone privileges revoked – in this case by the undersheriff – should he continue to call Sara at this rate.

Nonetheless, in their recent phone calls, Sara had reassured him that, as painful as Warrick's loss was, blame could not be cast recklessly. As in all cases they worked, it was the fault of the murderer, not any one of the compassionate friends who could have done something different – even the littlest or the most obvious thing – so as to prevent the death.

Reconciling his girlfriend and soul mate's logic with the guilt accumulating in his gut was another matter, however.

This guilt was compounded even further when Nick appeared in his office, the angry longhorn his state was known for. Gil already dreaded the results of this conversation even before Nick walked into the office. He could understand the Texan's frustration, more than that of any other teammate, because his was the conversation that had haunted Grissom over the last week; that conversation of a friend trying to help a friend, with the help of a friend, yet to no avail.

Were Nick to deliver a tirade, accusing Gil of all but pulling the trigger that left Warrick seeping blood in his car, Gil would not have uttered a word in response, no matter what Sara had said in their phone calls. As far as Grissom was concerned, Nick had every right to be pissed at him.

Yet when the look of a raging bull faded from Nick's face at the sight of the bags clouding his supervisor's face, Grissom let out a mental sigh of relief. Perhaps he wasn't about to hear it.

When Nick opened the door further, for Greg to join him, Grissom's first thought was of conspiracies and mutiny – that Nick brought a teammate to co-deliver a tirade, earning it greater credibility.

Yet the warmth on Greg's lips – "Hey Griss" – put Grissom more at ease.

"There's something we need to talk to you about," the former lab rat continued. "Though Nicky's got more of the talking to do this time."

Nick cringed again at the use of his nickname, one that he only wanted to hear coming from his former best friend.

"What's up Nick?" asked Grissom, the week's first sign of relief evident in his voice.

"It's about Warrick."

_Uh oh. So much for relief._ Grissom refrained, fearfully, from a follow up question. _What about Warrick? He's dead. That's all there is to it. _A true Catholic to the core, Grissom scolded himself for his blunt, cruel thoughts.

"We think there was something more to his death."

When Grissom didn't continue, Nick continued. "We want to investigate."

_Oh no_, thought Grissom. _I should have seen this coming._ The Feds had specifically asked him to keep his team off of the case. They had taken it from his team, and wanted it kept on the low down as much as possible. Adding a CSI, let alone one who had been, as far as Grissom could tell, Warrick's best friend, did not sound like the kind of idea that elicit bright FBI smiles.

He chuckled at the thought of bright FBI smiles.

Nick stared.

Collecting himself, Grissom replied, "I'm not so sure Nick. This… err…-"

"Come on Griss. Don't you trust me?"

_Uh oh_, Griss thought yet again. Nick had played the default win card there: trust. Of course Grissom trusted Nick now… now that it was too late for that trust to make Warrick alive again. He had failed to trust Nick when it really mattered. Who was he to say no to the poor grieving friend now?

"Go ahead. Just be careful. And make sure your other work is finished first. Only in your off-time. Okay?"

"Okay," said Nick, surprised by how easy the conversation had been. "Cool. Thanks Griss. Talk to you later."

Realizing what he had just done, Grissom called out as Nick and Greg left the room, "Keep me updated though. Okay Nick?"

"Sure thing boss," Nick and Greg replied as they walked out the door.

Grissom let out a sigh, put his feet on his desk and started up a whole new line of worrying. _What trouble are they going to get into now?_ He asked himself with a resigned huff.

* * *

Back at Nick's house, Catherine was just waking up, and Nick looked forward to going two for two with his higher-ups, though Greg was significantly less optimistic. He just hoped Catherine had found the coffee and had been able to think straight enough to read the note they'd left her.

Having taken a cab back to the bar to get her own car, she was pulling up to the lab as Nick and Greg were exiting Grissom's office.

"Hey Greggo. Nicky," she greeted them casually. "About last night," she began.

"About last night," Nick repeated.

"Thanks for the ride home, to both of you" she continued. "And I'm sure I have Greg to thank for such good coffee?"

Greg let loose his trademark smile, one he had had little opportunity to light up a room with in the past week.

"No problem. Happy to fix up someone's day – or night – with the joys of Mount Hualalai."

"That's quite a mouthful."

"In more ways than one."

Nick threw Greg a quizzical look. "That's where they make Blue Hawaiian, and all Kona coffees for that matter," Greg explained.

"Ah," Nick responded. "So that's how you spend your free time."

Greg delivered another smile, even though he was slightly hurt at his friend's lightly veiled insult. He liked to think his best friend thought better of him than that. "Among other things," he replied, raising his eyebrows.

Catherine laughed. "So what is it I can do for you boys?" Her smile dropped. "This isn't about the bullshit you were spewing around last night, is it Nicky?"

Nick grimaced again.

"No offense."

_Yeah right. _"None taken."

Greg, easing the tension, cut in, "Perhaps outside Bug Man's office isn't the best forum for this endeavor?"

Making a move for the breakroom, Catherine quickly chimed in "But my answer's not changing. I don't need to be drunk to see where this is going."

"Aw, of course," Nick cut back. "Because you don't need liquor to be irrational, now do you?"

"Guys!" Greg busted in again. "This –"

"My answer's not changing, no matter how diplomatic you try to be, Greggo," Catherine interrupted him, adding, "_even_ with a _life's_ supply of Blue Hawaiian." She winked, struggling to alleviate the grave situation with humor.

"Jus' listen to me, Cath," Nick begged.

"You've got sixty seconds, and don't think I'm not counting." She turned on Greg, softening again. "I got countin' seconds down good after my days at the Palace," she delivered with another wink.

Greg laughed. "Sure you do Cath." _And thanks for keeping it light. See if you can keep that up through what he says next_.

"Go ahead Nicky. I'm counting."

"So'm I," Greg added, and when Nick threw him a look, he knew he'd gone too far.

"Anyways," Nick said, seating Greg with a decisive and concluding glare, "I think it's suspicious that the Feds are taking over."

"I'm glad the Feds are taking over," Catherine replied.

"Hey, now wait. If you're giving me sixty seconds, they'd better be all mine. So you'd better cut off those last few with you talkin' and these last few for me tellin' you off on it," Nick countered, trying to join the lightening of the conversation.

"I'm not amused Nicky," Catherine grated. "Not when digging up Warrick's grave is involved."

_I told you she'd say that_, thought Greg.

Nick grimaced again, and started on another line of argumentation. "Please Cath. He was my best friend. I just want to do him justice."

"He was the love of my life. And I just want to let him rest in peace," Catherine replied slowly. "And your sixty seconds are up."

"But Cath –"

"Seriously. I don't want to hear it, and I don't want any part in this. Think about it Nicky. What if what you find is even more humiliating to Warrick than what you already know about his last few months? You really want to make your best friend turn over in his grave because you couldn't leave a few of his bad choices alone?"

"But I don't' think he made bad choices –"

"For god's sake, how well did you know Warrick then, Nicky? Best friends?"

"He didn't make that many bad choices."

"At least when the Feds investigate, they keep it quiet. They'll preserve his honor. There's nothing you can do to preserve his life Nick. But at least you can let him have that."

Catherine turned to go, and Nick fought to digest what she'd just said, and come out with a reply.

"Come on Cath. With your mob connections and roots in the system – We need your help!" he let out his last desperate plea. "Even Grissom's helpin'!"

"Grissom agrees with you?"

"Well, I didn't say that, but –"

"Then what do you mean by he's helping you?"

"He's letting us run the investigation."

Catherine pondered the implications of Nick's last words as she turned the first corner of the lab's hallway toward the break room. "I'll think about it, Nicky. I'll think about it."

Nick nodded his head in acquiescence as she disappeared from sight.

"Well that went well."

"Shut it Greg."

"Sorry-"

"It's been a rough few days. You already put jokes smack dab in the middle of important conversations 'bout findin' out what's up with _my_ best friend, and you're all on underminin' my efforts with humor, and I just don't need it. If you've got something productive to say, go ahead and say it. Other than that, why 'on't you go ahead and keep your yap shut."

Bristled, Greg stumbled to reply. "I've been helping you through all of this, Nick. I'm sorry if I offended you, or if I undermined your friendship with Warrick or your efforts to find out the whole story behind what happened to him in any way." He read off his lines like a forced police statement, but Nick hardly noticed or cared.

"Come on. Let's head back."

"To where?"

"I don't know."


	6. 6 First Clue

Thanks to all who are still reading. Special thanks to PisceanPal, lostladyknight and Mma63 for reviews and to PisceanPal and raceofh for beta. I promise the story is about to speed up quite a bit. It just took them a while to get to investigating. There is still much angst, suspense and mystery, along with a few big surprises to come. The story will probably pan out at over 40,000 -45,000 words (I have 37k done so far, and am definitely in the home stretch). A new update will probably get posted in the next few days, tomorrow at earliest.

* * *

**Chapter 6: First Clue**

Elton John's voice serenaded Grissom away from pleasant dreams of the many fantastic potential returns of Sara Sidle.

_And someone saved my life tonight sugar bear  
You almost had your hooks in me didn't you dear  
You nearly had me roped and tied  
Altar-bound, hypnotized  
Sweet freedom whispered in my ear  
Youre a butterfly  
And butterflies are free to fly  
Fly away, high away, bye bye_

He couldn't help thinking of Sara when he heard that ringtone. Grissom had originally bought the ringtone for entirely different purposes, and an entirely different person.

Sara, to him, was a butterfly, as well as a honey bee, ladybug and even, the highest complement from Gil Grissom, a cockroach. A beautiful Madagascar cockroach.

She was also the only person who ever managed to take that as a complement, not that he'd ever even tried that on anyone else. He knew it wouldn't have worked and there was no one else, save his mother – maybe – that could possibly earn such high flattery.

Nonetheless, while sifting through his massive mental inventory of lyrics relating to bugs, he had initially chosen that particular ring tone for someone very different, someone who did, in all too many ways, in the poetic words of Elton John, really nearly have Gil Grissom "roped and tied" – the undersheriff. Sweet freedoms whispered in his ear of more economic options for his team, the liberty to be oblivious to financial limits and run through all useful forensic tools – gelatin figures to mimic drivers caught on fire, among other things – freedom from writing up the reports he always ended up procrastinating on – okay, maybe that was pushing it, Gil Grissom thought in his hazy, just-awakening-from-a-two-hour-"catnap"-in-the-office daze.

As he groggily reached over his desk to pick up his phone, his brain alerted him to what in fact a call from the undersheriff at this hour could mean. He rolled his eyes in anticipated misery at the thought. _Politicking and complaints. Great. Just what I need. Especially at this hour. _

Dismissing the words of Elton John, a favorite of his, who, sadly, had no ring tones, came to mind.

"Sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of care… The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath… Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,… Chief nourisher in life's feast."

Mmm, Shakespeare, thought Grissom as he almost drifted back into that wonderful chief nourisher before the phone rang again, reminding him of the task at hand.

"Gil. It's about time you picked up."

"What is it? And why can't this wait until –"

"Your shift is going on right now Gil"

Peeved at the arrogance of the undersheriff to use his first name, given their only interactions were few and never near friendly or cordial, Grissom replied, with frustration dripping out of his voice, "My _second_ shift, in what has really lasted longer than two shifts given the paperwork I had to finish first. Personally, I do occasionally like being asleep at 4 o'clock in the morning."

"Well this is urgent."

"Great. Fine. Shoot."

"I have an order from the Feds. Something's gone around about Stokes and Sanders snooping around. I'm sorry about the death on your team. Brown was a good guy, and a top notch investigator, but they can't be conducting this investigation when it's clearly under federal jurisdiction at the moment, let alone on county time. Make them stop."

"They're not doing it on county time," Grissom said, almost instinctually, having checked this off in his own meeting with the two.

"I don't care. They're still off. The Feds are surprisingly pissed about this. It needs to stop."

"Fine. I'll tell them when I see them –"

"Tell them NOW. As soon as I hang up this phone, you will be calling Stokes, since apparently he's leading this, and telling him to get him and Sanders' butts back at the lab ASAP and get crackin' on whatever crime feels like happening tonight in Vegas, but NOT on the Warrick Brown incident."

_The Warrick Brown incident? I hate him more every time I talk to him, and not just because he's the authority figure always politicking and meddling. _

In truth, the Demetrius James fiasco had really rubbed Grissom the wrong way, on all things related to the undersheriff.

The way he had all but said that it would have been preferable for Greg to have died in the alleyway after being brutally beaten had been the last straw. The kid had been horribly shaken up to begin with by the whole thing, not to mention plagued by enough of his own guilt and self-doubt over his involvement in the incident – in which Grissom believed he had done the right thing, by saving Stanley Tanner.

Grissom rolled his eyes and stared at his watch, waiting for the undersheriff to stop his early-morning rampage. He would be glad to get off the phone with the man that had caused his team so much pain.

* * *

"Come on. Let's go."

"You're crazy man."

"Hey you wanted to play sidekick, so get with the program Greg."

"I was gonna play sidekick _and_ nanny, as in stop-Nicky-from-doing-anything-stupid nanny. You dig?"

"No Greg. I don't dig."

"Stopping you from doing something stupid? That includes stopping you from doing what you're doing right now. You're sure you want to break into Warrick's freakin' house?!"

"I'm damn sure."

"If he's got anything that will help us here, it's more likely gonna be in his locker. Why else would he have it guarded so well?"

"Guarded so well?"

"The lock's unbreakable! I meant it when I said I was a lock breaker. That one was unbustable. As in you can't crack it. Maybe with a five pound sledgehammer, and even then, we'd probably destroy any evidence in there. Okay, maybe that's an exaggeration, but still. He guarded it well. And you don't do that unless there's something you're really working hard to keep hidden. Something you're really worried about someone finding, even someone picking a lock to find. Now you dig?"

"Yeah, I _dig_," Nick scoffed at the surfer-dude lingo. "So you want to dig Warrick's locker key out of his pocket now?"

"No, I can't say I carry around Warrick's pants on a regular basis. My man-purse at the moment consists of my cell phone, my car keys, a planner and my wallet – not dirty denims a la Warrick."

"Seein' as we've already established you're too 'manly' to carry around the key that would get us in there," Nick said, holding up quote marks at "manly," "how do you expect to get into that locker?"

"Five pound sledgehammer?"

"Pshh yeah, exactly. So his house it is." Before Greg had the chance to argue, Nick added, "His car's already bein' processed by the Feds. I can't think of any other useful place."

"How about your place?"

"My place?" Nick looked perplexed.

"Well you're always gushing about how he's your best friend," Greg started resentfully, _even though I'm the one that's always there to hang out, and play Madden, and hear about all your romantic exploits, and watch the games with, and take you to concerts and do everything else a best friend does_…

Nick glanced up at Greg, who appeared lost in thought but finally continued, "You'd think, being his best friend at all, that you would have some stuff at your place of his, or some general hint or awareness or something of what he may or may not have been up to, where he might have hidden a key, or _something_"

Nick saw Greg's point.

"Okay. I can see your point."

Looping back around the strip, away from the direction of Warrick's house, he headed home.

Greg looked out the window, relieved to have alleviated yet another conflict. Keeping Nick in check really was full-time nanny work. Now Greg was getting tired.

* * *

They arrived at Nick's house yet more exhausted. Greg barely stayed awake at the wheel, and Nick's slow moving country music didn't help. Nonetheless, though off-duty, they adhered to the rule of 'non-driver picks music,' even though the driver was, this time, not the job in demand.

By the time they got there, both barely had the energy to open the doors to the car, let alone walk to the first steps and _then_ search the house. Nonetheless, Nick the determined, or, to Greg, pigheaded, set about searching the house for any leftover notes of Warrick.

The house, as far as Greg could see, remained Martha Stewart-clean, and there were scarce signs of Warrick in the house.

In fact, there were more signs of Greg, which didn't surprise him but seemed to only further infuriate Nick. But Greg should have guessed it, as the second-choice best friend. He slumped over on the couch, exhausted. _This sucks._

Photographs of Warrick, however, were noticeable, but it didn't take long for Nick to go over all of them, checking the backs for some hidden notes or signs as to what had befallen his friend.

"We got nothin'," Nick dismally declared.

Greg stretched back on the couch again, looking sideways at his forlorn friend. He didn't bother to argue with the statement. He'd already used up too much energy in the last week arguing with Nick.

"What do we do?" asked Nick.

"My only guess is to retrace your steps," Greg said, judging based on personal experience with every item he'd ever lost.

Nick took it as an opportunity to mourn his best friend more, and to drive himself to even greater desperation, recounting his last moments with Warrick.

Nick sniffed as he recalled it all; every moment after Catherine had left the bar.

He had to remember his last meeting with his friend, to try to get through it all.

_"Well. I guess it's just you and me, Serpico."_

_"Let's get a beer"_

_"Oh no"_

_"Come on, you're a free man now."_

_"This free man needs a free shower. I think a I'll leave you to a… take a hard look at that redhead," he said, motioning to the waitress whose eyes had been flirting with Nick all evening. _

_"You know I just might do that…" Nick paused, overwhelmed by the moment, ending so quickly, that felt like both a melancholy beginning and a bittersweet end, even then. "Hey, I'm really glad you're okay."_

_"Thanks," his friend replied as he made his move to leave the restaurant. _

_"I'll call you later. Bye," Nick said as Warrick walked out the door for the last time. _

_After Warrick had walked out the door, forever – Nick grimaced at the thought—the redhead had walked up to his table. Nick was too lost in thought to notice her deliver a second check. _

_Feeling suddenly tired after the emotionally exhausting day, Nick asked the waitress for her number, content to deal with romantic endeavors at a later date. _

_"You already have it, sugar. It's on that receipt," she said with a grin. He returned the grin as she added, "I'm surprised you didn't notice the extra receipt. Mr. Brown already paid for the dinner."_

Just as Nick was about to break down again, Greg interrupted. "How did she know his name was Mr. Brown?"

* * *

Thanks for reading, and make sure to review :) Next chap will probably be up in the next day or two. At the moment, we have a very annoying, and rather needy houseguest over, so I'm not 100 sure how quickly chapters will be up. Also, this is my graduation week, and I can pretty much guarantee that there will be no update on Saturday, so it's almost certainly going to be tomorrow.

Thanks,

Harper


	7. 7 Threats and Strange Phone Calls

Just to let you know, most of the OC's mentioned (vics, perps, etc.) are names stolen from Homicide: Life on the Streets (aka the best television show ever). This pattern will likely continue, as it gets me out of thinking of name. Pembleton was my favorite character and one of the most brilliant characters of all time (and not just according to me; the critics agreed). Tim Bayliss was Pembleton's partner for most of the show, and at one point, under a lot of stress after a bad break-up, he held up a convenience store owner because Bayliss didn't have the remaining 11 cents necessary to pay for milk and cookies. Also, it was later discovered that he ran a Buddhist website .

Thanks to lostladyknight and Mma63 for reviews, and to PisceanPal and Raceofh for beta, and to everyone who has the story on alert :) Oh, and just so you know, in this story, Nick asked for the waitress's phone number, but didn't actually end up going out with her.

Happy Reading :)

Harper

**Threats, Disappointments and Strange Phone Calls**

How _did_ she know his name was Mr. Brown?

Nick pondered through the events of the night, recalling in detail every name ushered at Warrick. But no member of the team had ever referred to him by his last name.

He thought back to his previous trips to the restaurant, but the waitress escaped his memory. She must have been new, or at least not used to working that shift.

He knew for a fact that he, in the very least, would have remembered her delicate physique and inviting smile.

As silly as it sounded, if she had made eye contact with him that night – The Night –, then why not on previous trips? He disregarded that train of thought though, recognizing she could have just not been single on previous trips to the diner.

Nothing left to ponder, having recalled no instance of Warrick being called anything other than Rick, or – on occasion and only by Catherine – War, he resolved to pursue his one remaining piece of evidence: the receipt not mistakenly handed him with a phone number.

He had reached all dead-ends, and the waitress's name for Warrick was the first detail to escape notice.

Sure, it could easily be a dead-end. Warrick could have easily visited the restaurant before, on his off-time, even though the food was awful, as Catherine pointed out holding up a limp slice of less-than-turkey bacon.

Warrick could even have met her during his rocky period leading up to his divorce.

Nick winced at the thought. Not only was Warrick not the type to cheat, even when he and his separated wife were as good as not speaking, Nick distinctly remembered a "no sharing" rule applied to women and their friendship.

As redneck as it sounded, the nullification of such a rule via Warrick's death was the kind of thing that most irked Nick. It was the little things that he missed the most, at least at that moment, the little things that the two had shared; the small similarities and mutual cultural ideals.

Nick was a good ole' boy from Texas, the son of a conservative political elite raised with five sisters and a home on the range. Warrick, on the other hand, was a Vegas boy, raised, in contrast, on the streets and in classic Vegas style. He was reared from an early age by a grandparent, and forced to grow up fast, living on the Vegas streets.

Yet they were both so much the same person. They were both _guys_, in every sense of the word. Booze and football and women and life in general. Inside, they were the same big-hearted macho man sittin' back on the couch waving a beer in the air as the game progressed, whooping it up for their teams and hollering it up at the hottest chicks on the beer commercials.

They were guys, and they were brothers. They had both found themselves living a different life than expected, working grave shift, a world apart from the rest of the world, or so it felt on so many days. Yet they both brought their surprisingly in sync senses of tradition to the table at their jobs, and back to the couches for the games, and to wherever else they traveled as an inseparable duo. _Brothers from another mother,_ as Warrick had said. _Damn, I miss him_.

When a hard case got to Nick, it was Warrick, the Vegas boy, which brought the Texan back home. It was Warrick that reminded him why he was there, because they were in it together.

In a home away from home, in a city that – no matter how long Nick lived there – would never be home, Warrick was Nick's home, his community, his sense of belonging and reminder of the ole' Texas way.

_Best friends forever_. _Too bad forever had to be so short._

Greg, who had been in the kitchen making breakfast, didn't try to interrupt Nick's train of thought. He couldn't tell whether Nick was just staring off into space, courtesy of double shifts and another case off the clock, or if he had actually fallen on something useful. Greg was just glad Nick was silently pondering rather than loudly bemoaning their lack of solid evidence and waiting for the world to end, as it seemed he had spent the entire car ride over doing.

"I've got something," Nick announced.

_And it even sounds like he's got something good. Merci a dieux. _

"I don't think anyone called him Mr. Brown that visit."

_Good…_

"And I don't think I saw her there before."

_Okay, keep going cowboy._

"And I don't think Warrick would have visited there alone… 'cause that food's just not good enough to warrant that."

_Amen to that, brotha._

"So what you want to do now?"

"What time does her shift start?"

"Why?"

_Doh. Back to stupid Nicky mode._ "Well if you want to camp out in front of the diner – with food you just admitted yourself sucks – or" _No dumbass, this means we can take a break 'til her shift! Sleep!_ – "or we can just sleep and wait for her shift to start." Greg grew more excited by the word, or at least as excited as possible in his very sleep-deprived mind, at the thought of finally having time for some zzz's.

"Hey buddy – no need," Nick said with a smile that was supposed to be reassuring to the friend he thought was just as eager to crack the case as he was. "I got her phone number."

_Doh. Sorry pillow, and comforter, and mattress… you'll have to wait. _Greg was practically drooling as he listed the contents of his bed in his mind. "You got the phone number with you?"

"Uh… maybe."

Nick sorted through his pockets, before heading to his closet. "Dammit!" emerged from Nick's room.

_Uh oh._

"I put the freakin' number in my freakin' pockets! And my freakin' pockets are in the freakin' jeans that are now in the freakin' wash! Fuck!"

_Double uh oh. Maybe I'll be hitting the hay after all, but to less than pleasant dreams of Nick throttling himself and his washing machine. This is trouble._ Begging the devil in his head to shut up, Greg made his way toward Nick's washing machine, carefully prying the dryer door out and pulling out a worn out pair of jeans.

Reaching inside the largest front pocket, he pried out a sheet of paper, along with a very beat-up dollar bill that no vending machine would accept. Two pennies fell out of the pocket. _He's lucky those didn't fall out in there and mess up the machine_, Greg thought. _Man, Nicky must have been a lot drunker than he admitted that night to stick a pair of jeans with full pockets in here. He wasted a perfectly good dollar – and that counts for a lot on the county pay scale._

He unfolded the sheet of paper very gently, careful not to loose valuable information because the drying paper stuck together.

"What ya got there? And what are you doin' tryin' on my jeans?"

Greg chuckled. "You really think I'd be tryin' _these_ on? Maybe everything _is_ bigger in Texas, cause they sure don't make butts this big back in San Gabriel. At least not male butts."

Nick looked at him perplexedly before noticing the sheet of paper in Greg's hand. "Ah, I see what you're doin', at least what you're doin' other than conveying your envy at lacking any appropriately sized junk in the trunk."

Greg raised his eyebrows, more than a little bemused. _He said 'junk in the trunk.' That's a new one._ "We've got a phone number. Or at least it looks like a phone number."

Nick walked over to take a look. "Seven digits. So that could just be the last seven digits, assumin' it's a Vegas zip."

"You mean area code."

"Yeah, yeah, same diff."

"Okay, lead the way my friend. What do you aim to do with this phone number and a Vegas zip… er, area code?" Greg replied, continuing the joke in his last words.

"Well… let's see…"

"Hey, you're the CSI Three. Can't have me, the lowly newbie, doin' all the hard thinking."

Nick gave him a bemused glare.

"Shutting up now."

Nick could see that Greg's enthusiasm for their scavenger hunt was on the rise, which was a good thing. It helped to have a partner with a sense of humor, and most importantly, optimism, to lighten the mood and keep him going.

_Keep me going, eh?_ He had to admit that Greg had helped him keep a sense of direction and avoid succumbing to all degrees of despair and throwin' in the towel at the slightest disappointment – of which there had been many in this miserable case.

It was, very much so, a miserable case to be working, if it could even be called a case – and Greg could possibly be held solely responsible for keeping it on track, which was a lot to say for the man that had never really wanted to follow through with it in the first place.

Rejuvenated by his sidekick's sense of humor and direction, Nick flipped over the paper, simultaneously flipping over options in his mind.

"I say we go for it."

"How so?"

"Eh… let's see…"

"You want to call the number?"

"Sure thing. That would make sense, wouldn't it?"

"Yup."

"So I'm just makin' a follow-up call to her givin' me the number without askin', eh?"

"Sounds about right to me."

"Okay. Wish me luck."

"You could put it on speaker phone. So I could hear what she has to say too. Wouldn't need the luck quite as much there, eh?"

"Here, I got two lines. You take the one plugged into the wall. That one does mute. That way I don't have to worry 'bout you blurtin' stuff out that you're not s'pposed to."

Though slightly insulted at the implication – that he couldn't keep his mouth shut – Greg acknowledged it was certainly a reputation he had more that cultivated in the lab, and he consequentially headed for the phone.

Nick dialed 702, the normal Clark County zip, then the 7 digits on the sheet. 3_204842._ He listened for the ring with more anxiety than he had ever felt as he waited for a girl to pick up.

But this wasn't just any girl, and it had nothing to do with his desire to sleep with her.

In fact, that desire was relatively lost when he found out Warrick was dead. Her significance as one of the last things mentioned by his best friend in their last encounter – probably one of the last mentioned in his entire life, Nick could guess, depending on whether Warrick had talk to his killer – removed all sex appeal.

The phone continued to ring. Nick stayed on the line. Finally, an automated answering service picked up. "Um… hi. This is uh… a friend of Warrick Brown… the one you gave the sheet of paper to… with this number… oh and, um… this is for … um… " He struggled to think of the waitress's name. "

Nicole," Greg blurted out. Though slightly aggravated that Greg had not followed his instructions, leaving the phone off of mute, Nick was relieved that his friend had paid attention, thus saving him from stuttering, or leaving a message "for the redheaded waitress at the diner."

"Ahem" Nick cleared his throat, trying to make it seem like the notable change in voice had simply been a cold of his acting up. Not that he wanted to sound like a sickly man on the phone asking for a date. _Not that you're asking for a date anyways, _he reminded himself.

"Ah, yeah. If you could give me a call back,… _Nicole_… at 502-4232, since you're apparently not a big area code person." He heard Greg cough on the other line. "Oh, and my name is Nick. Well thanks. Hope to be hearing from you soon. And this really is urgent, so the sooner you call back, the better. This isn't really about the date, but more about Warrick, and I really would appreciate it if you could give me a call back as soon as possible. Thanks. Bye." _Way to play it cool, Nick._

Just as he was hanging up the phone, he saw Greg come dashing in from the other room, whispering loudly, "And I'll call you back again, just in case."

Nick gave him a questioning look, but Greg nodded his head vigorously, threatening to grab the phone from Nick and say it himself.

Nick relented, and added, just before the message limit, "I'm gonna call ya back again, just in case you're just getting' back from your shift."

After hanging up the phone, he gave Greg another questioning look. "Just trust me on this."

Considering how reliable his buddy had been in the last week, Nick obliged, and sat his head down next to the telephone, to sleep _–finally_ -and wait for the call back.

* * *

Nick was awakened by a phone call. "Damn Greg. Early morning call again? I love that you're helpin' out on my investigation, but seriously, can't you start getting' some important information while I'm _awake_?"

"I'm not Greg," said a masked voice on the other line. Nick jumped. "And you might want to consider being a little more careful. I'd be asking about this investigation you just mentioned," Nick already tense, gulped loudly. "If I weren't calling you to stop it. So stop it."

"And yes," the caller continued slowly, almost regretfully, "I know where you live. I know that you got yourself unlisted after the Crane incident" – Nick gulped again – "but that does not stop me from stopping you, Nicky. I know you, and you know me. Or," he repeated very slowly, "at least you think you knew me. If you continue this investigation, you'll put your entire team in danger – Grissom,… Greg,… Cath,… maybe even Sara. You've already lost one friend. Are you really ready to lose another?"

A dial tone broke the silence.

Questions filled Nick's mind. _Why did the voice sound so familiar? It sounded muffled, but muffled to hide the fact that I knew them… and they called me Nicky… and Catherine Cath! Who does that?! _Gradually, and beyond reluctantly, he recognized the most likely explanation: there was a mole, and they were in fact someone he knew – someone on the team.

* * *

Yet it was not a phone call back from Nicole, nor the mystery caller, that woke Nick, but one from Greg, who had left shortly after Nick's phone call to Nicole – and shortly after watching his buddy fall asleep as soon as his head hit the hard wood counter next to the phone.

"Hey Nick"

"What's up Greggo?" Nick responded slowly, slightly less happy than the last time Greg had woken him up via phone at a less-than-perfect hour. Staring at the clock, however, he realized his was not so much the less-than-perfect hour. _Ah shit._

He was supposed to have gone in to work an hour ago. Having passed out so quickly at the phone, setting his alarm clock had been completely beyond him.

He had grown accustomed enough to the night shift schedule that he often woke up on his own at the right time. However, this past week had done a number on his relatively trusty biological clock. Between the stress of his best friend's death and the extra hours off the clock required to investigate it, exhausted was an understatement for Nick Stokes, and even his reliable sense of time needed a nap.

Greg, as he could tell by the groggy voice on the other line, sounded better. It was remarkable how resilient his friend was, and he silently cursed his friend for his superior ability to survive on so little sleep. _Probably just suckin' up to Grissom_, Nick thought begrudgingly.

"So you plannin' on showin' up for work today? I'd rather you be filling out paperwork half-asleep on-shift than calling in sick and investigating… you know… once you feel up to it and putting yourself into stupid situations without your trusty sidekick to keep your head on straight."

Nick chuckled into the phone. "Thanks for the concern Greggo. Just tell Griss I'll be in late. Overslept. He'll understand."

Though Nick couldn't see him, Greg nodded, knowing that, given recent events, Grissom would understand if Nick showed up halfway through shift dressed in inside-out and backwards PJs, let alone an hour late and, likely, semi-distracted. _What a fucked up week_, Greg thought. "Will do."

"Thanks bud."

"No prob. Now get your butt movin'"

Nick chuckled into the phone again. "Will do."

* * *

By the time Nick showed up, Greg was just finishing up his B&E, having brought in the perp and run an easy fingerprint match, to which the suspect, so doped out on heroin, made no effort to otherwise explain away, saying only, "I needed the money."

This was the typical case, thought Greg, and stood in stark contrast to those surrounding Candy, Gedda and now Warrick's murders.

Catherine had jumped rank, or rather dove it. She took over most of the lowly CSI One work – except, of course the nauseating decomp, which did not complement her near-constantly hung-over state.

She took over the closest to busy work that she could find, so that she could glide through her work in a zombie-like trance and so that her debilitating grief could not jeopardize the case.

Even on the worst of days, Catherine could think clearly enough to figure out how she was best equipped to handle the situation, and the limits of her help. She still knew the dangers her misery posed for their casework, and happily obliged her not-as-drunk and superego, which was used to grief by now.

Catherine Willows was the most self-aware and thoughtful drunk Nick, Greg or Grissom had ever seen.

Warrick would have been proud – almost – but for the part where she was really getting drunk. Even though he had had some substance and addiction issues of his own to contend with, he would have wanted what was best for Cath. And she knew it.


	8. 8 Dreams and Results

Thanks once again to raceofh and PisceanPal for beta and to Mma63 and Lostladyknight for reviews. Thanks as well to all of those who have been reading the story, and putting it on alert. If you could also review it, I'd be very grateful :) hint hint Anyways, enjoy. Another little hint of romance to come in this chapter. Brace yourselves for more in later chapters. And I PROMISE the action and angst starts next chapter. I would kind of categorize this story as having three main sections in terms of the action, and this is towards the end of the 1st/beginning of the 2nd where the action really picks up, so keep reading and be patient; I promise it's coming soon.

Enjoy :)

Harper

* * *

**Chapter 8: Dreams and Results**

"How's the case going, Greggo?" asked Wendy as she collected Greg's evidence to run.

"Fine," said the only member of Grave shift that was not totally distracted. Some days _– these days –_ Greg Sanders felt like he was the one running the show.

All the other CSIs couldn't keep their minds on any case – at least not any case assigned to LVPD – for the span of time it took to run a print.

And that was just keeping their minds in the general direction of a case. Getting them to put their full attention and mental capacity into a case for that long was another matter entirely.

Greg was just glad that Grissom at 50 percent effort and 10 percent attention span still outdid an ordinary person. Hell, Grissom could pawn Ecklie in his sleep at this job.

_At least that's one person doing something. The one person who's stuck behind a desk_. Greg sighed. The week just kept getting longer and longer, and his mind, though it belonged to a certifiable Stanford-full-ride genius, could only take so much. _Guess this is practice for supervising._

Of course, he had to cut everyone else, at least all of the other CSI's – some slack. They had been a lot closer to Warrick than he had been. It was inevitable that they take the disappearance of Warrick from their lives a lot harder.

After all, he was like a son to Grissom; He was the prodigal son. Though he had strayed earlier – with his gambling woes – he still found ways to make it right. He also still won Grissom's approval, with the CSI Three title that shocked the whole team. Grissom had contradicted direct orders – or at least direct and very unsubtly strong suggestions – from higher ups to fire the CSI, and instead rewarded him shortly thereafter with a new title. _Hah. That's why they keep Grissom. His willingness to kiss ass. Not. _Greg, for one, certainly admired the man, and he could almost, _almost_, see why Sara loved him so much.

Sara. He missed her. A lot. His heartache had shrunk a little, since learning of her rendezvous, which, he reluctantly acknowledged, was more than just a rendezvous, with the boss.

He was proud of himself for only thinking of her ten times this week. And yes, he counted – though even his brilliant scientific and mathematical mind could not keep up with the number of times he thought of Sara Sidle in the first week following her departure. He began to ponder the meaning of whole numbers and infinity as he thought on how he simply could not rid her from his mind that week.

Yet he'd still managed to put his full mind into his cases that week and in the weeks after. Work, in fact, brought him relief to the stress of that week, and many other stressful weeks in his life. He had requested a week back in DNA in the week after her departure, and, despite the labor shortage they faced with Sara's loss, Grissom had complied.

The monotony of DNA had given him the time and space he needed to collect himself, and head back into the field reinvigorated, with the lofty goal of excelling, to show some ghost of Sara Sidle still lingering in the lab that she had taught him well. He knew she would be proud.

Sara, he thought, was the other CSI who wouldn't have been quite as affected by the loss of Warrick. Greg knew the two missing CSI's had clashed heads occasionally. He'd heard the stories, or rather overheard them in the process, as Sara ranted at Warrick for his gambling troubles, refusing to trust him. He corrected her, putting the issues aside and the pair of CSI's at greater ease, but Greg felt as if a strain from the incident had always lingered.

In the very least, they never had the chance to grow as close, perhaps because they started at a greater distance and were never able to reach each other as Nick, Catherine and Griss had reached Warrick.

While Griss was like a father to Warrick, Nick had been like a brother, and like a best friend, and Catherine… well there had always been something between the two of them. That much was obvious whenever they were together, and certainly now that they were apart.

It was a pity that it wasn't until now that it became so obvious. If Cath could have been as obvious in her adoration of the man – which, Greg thought, a blind man or even an emotionally deaf man like Grissom could now see – then she and Warrick would have been together long ago.

No doubt, however, that the romances of each had played a part in preventing their inevitable unity. Greg had always suspected that Warrick and Catherine played parts in each others' inabilities to keep relationships together.

On his occasional nights out with both Warrick and Nick, Warrick always seemed to notice the girls that looked like Catherine. In fact, all of the women he'd ever seen Warrick with had a certain aura of Catherine to Greg, and when he dumped them, from what Greg heard, it was always because of something they lacked, something that embodied Cath. It was because they weren't Catherine, Greg realized now with a grimace.

It was Warrick who had initially noticed the redheaded waitress at the restaurant. She had been slender, with strawberry hair not unlike his colleague. And, like Catherine, she had the air of responsibility, propriety and of being businesslike, but a hint of flirtatiousness in her eyes. No wonder she knew Warrick's last name.

_Star-crossed lovers_, Greg thought sadly. _Romeo and Juliet. Warrick Brown and Catherine Willows_. It almost had the same ring to it. Almost. And at this rate, Catherine would poison herself to death too, just like Juliet, at seeing her lover's death. But Catherine would poison herself more gradually, courtesy of tequila. At least, thought Greg still more sadly, that was the direction she was headed in.

And Nick. He had been procrastinating on getting to that one, just as Grissom had been procrastinating on getting to… well, everything lately.

Nick and Warrick were brothers, best friends, partners in crimes, two peas in a pod. They were the guys and the clique that Greg had hoped to join. That he never would. He would never be part of that group.

He thought back to a picture, pinned to the board he was standing next to, in the break room. Nick and Warrick had their arms around each others' shoulders, laughing together as if at some inside joke. _Probably was_.

The team as a whole was laughing, smiling together, like a family, in the picture. Greg didn't remember exactly when it was taken. He didn't want to. He was off to the side, as far to the side as he could have been without looking weird, he thought in retrospect. He wasn't part of the team – wasn't part of the family of the team. He didn't deserve to be.

Sara stood in the picture, her hand around Greg's shoulder, and his around hers, albeit more awkwardly than Nick and Warrick's otherwise congruent stances. Sara had made him feel like family, even as her eyes in the picture seemed to stray toward Grissom. Sara had made the lab feel like home. For all her often condescending remarks, for all her roughness, she made Greg feel like part of the family. Greg missed that.

Wendy shouted out from DNA. The test came back sealing the deal for court. _And look_, he thought to himself. _Who can't keep their head on a case for the span of a test_. He laughed at himself and set about to get his results.

* * *

Catherine Willows woke up in a sweat from another dream.

She, like Nick, had had trouble sleeping since Warrick's death. She, however, unlike Nick, had been plagued by dreams of the more intense nature.

She dreamed about her and Warrick's first date together.

The first time they had slept together.

The way Warrick smiled.

Almost crashing into him when investigating the murder at the restaurant earlier that year. Not that she had meant it to happen any other way.

She missed him.

They had always been single at the wrong times.

First, there was Eddie. He had cheated on Catherine so much, so that it hardly seemed wrong when she had gone out to dinner with Warrick. Warrick treated her like a lady. For all of Eddie's barbs about Warrick being too much the Vegas boy, the gambler and the 'bad boy,' Warrick had been a gentleman to Catherine. In fact, she had seldom see him be anything but, in all her years at CSI.

It was in those last years, when he was with Tina, that she saw him change – saw him snap. But as his relationship with Tina had winded down, Catherine began to see the same Warrick emerge, the gentleman. And it was at that time that they began to get close again.

She dreamed of their next date, the date that she knew would never come.

* * *

Nick was rushing in the door. "Hey Greggo. I got a call back."

"_I thought he wasn't going to do anymore without me?" _Greg looked up. "_He looks optimistic though. It can't be all bad. I guess that means he didn't mess it up too much." _

"It was a wrong number."

_And I can tell why he's happy about that… _

"But I have another idea."

_Here comes Mr. Grand Conspiracy Theories with another idea. Look out Abe Lincoln._

"The locker"

Greg looked at him quizzically, but suddenly, it dawned on him too. _That actually makes sense._ "There's a zero in the combination?"

"Yup."

"Awesome."

"I was gonna wait for you to open it."

_Double awesome. So I'm not excluded from this investigation._

"So what's the hold-up?"

"There is none. I just got the DNA off Wendy to confirm our perp on the Pembleton B&E."

"Good thoroughness. So we ready to try?"

"Sure thing." _He looks awful optimistic. Maybe a bit too optimistic. Definitely a bit too optimistic. This is quite a stretch, guessing that some waitress who somehow knew Warrick's last name gave Nick Warrick's locker combo rather than just any fake phone number… Wait… this is way too much of a stretch._

Nick started turning the numbers on Warrick's locker, keeping his toes crossed since he needed his fingers for the lockers. _Hell, I'll cross my eyes if that'll help._

Greg looked on hopefully.

Nick turned the numbers, breathing hard and hoping it brought him closer to finding his best friend's killer.

Nick plugged in the first number. "You hear anything, Greg?"

"Nope, but we already went over this. It's not a normal lock. It's not cut out for a lock breaker. So we shouldn't be able to hear anything, whether it's the right number or not." _But I'd go with 'not' anyways, considering the improbability of this situation._

Nick plugged in the second number, the stubborn look on his face giving way to just plain worried.

With the third number, he waited for a click.

And never got one.

He tried again, this time pulling the lever up at the third number.

And it still didn't work.

"Dammit," Nick said, resignation loudly apparent.

They headed out of the locker room. "Sorry about that," Greg said to his again-forlorn friend.

Nick merely nodded in recognition of his friend's statement.

"Not that it'll brighten your day, but Griss wants to talk to us."

"Great."

Heading toward Grissom's office, they were surprised to find the door wide open, and Grissom nowhere to be found. "Well at least that's a task we can put off for the moment."

They began to walk, meandering, talking and searching for solitude to discuss their covert case.

"He made it seem like we can't really wait on this. Said it was urgent."

"Well that sure is something Grissom knows about. Having held off on everything since Sara's been gone."

"Nick –"

"Oh come on. Don't defend him. You know how many of those reports he's actually gotten done –"

"That's not what I'm talking about."

Nick looked at Greg, who quickly pointed his head sharply to the side, at a hidden corner of the cold case files. Greg put a finger to his lips.

They could both barely make out the sound of whispering voices.

* * *

Ooh, slight cliffie. I'm tryin' to keep you all reading, and waiting for the next chapter. So enjoy the wait, which I promise will be short, as I have most of the story written at this point, and make sure to review. As previously stated, I will return the favor if you have a story written for me to review. :)

Harper


	9. 9 Grissom and Moles

Ah, finally some action coming up here folks. Thanks for sticking with me this long. This is kind of the beginning of the next section of the story, which comes with more action, clues and whatnot, rather than Nick and Greg just being on the edge about the investigation. And with them now fully committed to it comes more angst and action. mwahaha. Anywho, enjoy :)

Harper

**Chapter 9: Grissom and Moles**

"A mole. You're sure there's a mole. In MY department? _That's_ what you took me down for, to tell me that?"

"What'd you expect me to take you down here to Cold Cases to do Gil, kiss you?"

"No!" Grissom said with disgust. "And can… I'm sorry, but this is just…"

"Big news?"

"Yes. And more than anything, it's difficult to believe news. This is CSI. We rely on evidence. What's your evidence?"

"Well I guess that's why I didn't last quite as long as head of the lab," Jim replied. "But I'm an LVPD _detective_. In _my_ unit, we rely on hunches. And I've got a very strong hunch, backed up with some very… shall we say loud… evidence, albeit circumstantial, that's makin' me think this. And you know you've relied on my hunches before."

"They've served LVPD well."

"Yes. Good observation. Can we hear it for Mr. Evidence?"

"Okay, okay," Grissom replied dismissively. "So your hunch tells you there's a mole."

"Yeah," Brass said as he looked down to turn down his suddenly beeping pager. "I gotta go, but be careful around the undersheriff… or actually… be careful around everybody. For all I know it could be you, so you can see what a risk I'm taking here."

Grissom smirked. "Point taken. I'll be careful."

Hearing the conversation come to an end, and suspecting both Grissom and Brass would be wandering out of cold cases momentarily, Nick and Greg started for the restroom near the coroner's office, hoping to avoid seeming like moles themselves, though Greg pointed out, "Security in numbers," quite accurately. They only knew of one mole, not a pair.

"Okay great. Now we're lookin' at the undersheriff," Nick lamented. "This seems mighty hopeless."

Greg raised his eyebrows, not saying a word.

"How in hell are we gonna investigate the undersheriff?"

"Why don't you ask Mr. Evidence?" Greg said sarcastically.

Taking a look through the bathroom door, Nick elected that the coast was clear. If Grissom or Brass saw them down here, it could be explained that they were just headed to talk in private. Grissom would know why, and if he had been conferring with Brass about their private investigation -- as, based on the last overheard conversation, they suspected he had -- then Brass would be in the know as well.

Nonetheless, the coast was in fact clear and they headed up to Grissom's office unnoticed – or so they thought.

* * *

Heading into Grissom's office, they stopped at the door, checking quickly for another conversation to be overheard before knocking.

"Come in."

Grissom's office had become surprisingly neat since last they saw. Nick wondered if it had something to do with the mole conversation.

Dropping his glasses to look them –though more Nick than Greg – in the eyes, in true Grissom fashion, the supervisor began:

"I just received a call."

Nick smiled, encouraging his boss to continue.

Grissom, unsure of where to begin, in telling his potentially wayward-heading son to call of Mission Warrick Brown, cleared his throat. "It was with the undersheriff. Forces upwind have gotten word of your investigation. They're not pleased. I'm sorry guys. I know this isn't something… that you want to just drop –"

"Damn right it isn't."

Grissom acknowledged Nick's outburst, then continued. You really do need to stop it."

Greg, thinking carefully about the conversation he's just overheard, quickly changed his tune and pre-empted his partner. "We understand what you're saying. And it makes sense." _For once, now that you're not talking in quotes or bug language._ "However," at this he turned to Nick.

"We can't do that," Nick continued. "It isn't up for discussion, nor does it fall under the lab's jurisdiction. If you prefer to treat us as individual civilians conducting the equivalent of an investigation leading up to a citizen's arrest, so be it. If you feel it necessary, we can even abstain from utilizing lab resources over the course of conducting our investigation, although I think you should know that that would only slow us down, not ultimately prevent us from completing it. As clichéd as it sounds, I really can't rest until I know the full story."

"And you don't trust the Feds to get you the full story?"

"Honestly? No, I don't. I don't think they can do the job that I can. I know objectivity is useful, most of the time, but I think I can find things that the Feds can't. And, furthermore, I think the Feds will put their own asses, along with whatever investigations they're conducting, no matter where Warrick fits in with that, over Warrick's welfare."

"With all due respect, Nick. Warrick's dead."

"Something's weird about this all. Ever since that stripper showed up dead. I can't say what, but I knew. I just _knew_. The way I knew Warrick. The way I knew something was up with him."

Grissom flinched as Nick played the card he didn't even know he had.

"Warrick knew there was something more to this. I knew he knew because I knew him. I _knew_ him."

Grissom pondered the impassioned monologue.

"I would prefer if you did not use lab resources." Nick looked up, optimistically, surprised that Grissom had not told him to stop flat out. "Particularly," he coughed, "not lab personnel." "_That makes sense, given the mole conversation,"_ thought Greg. "_He's just looking out for our welfare. Doesn't want us to turn into Warrick when we get caught."_

Nick looked on, waiting for the next word from his boss.

"That's it. Just…. please… be careful."

Nick nodded.

"And Greg, I need to speak with you afterwards about the Pembleton case." Turning to Nick, he added, "You can go Nick."

As Nick closed the door, Grissom cleared his throat again.

"So… the Pembleton case. It's pretty much done. Clean and clear as they get, I'd say-"

"I want you to keep an eye on Nick."

Greg looked slightly surprised.

"Make sure he doesn't get into trouble. And report back to me on his progress. I don't want this getting out of hand." An uncharacteristic amount of emotion crept back into Grissom's voice. "I don't want to lose another CSI."

Greg nodded.

"I know this case is important to him, and that, no matter what I say, Nick's not going to give up. I'd just prefer if I stay informed on your progress. Minimize the damage I see happening too easily. Will that be possible?"

As Greg opened his mouth, Grissom added, with a wink, "And remember, I do control who gets the decomps."

Appreciating the levity, once again, Greg nodded. "It's fine. I'll take care of it."

"Thanks Greg."

* * *

Greg opened the door to find himself face to face with Nick. He was immediately afraid that his friend had overheard his conversation with their boss. He had no time, however, to think about the possibility, as he was greeted immediately with a question from Nick.

"What if he had another locker?"

"Hmm?"

"What if the first digit is the locker number, and the next six are the combo?"

Greg looked at Nick quizzically. "The odds of that are… --"

"Better than the odds were of us finding Warrick's car."

Greg smiled at the reference, glad to see his friend was gaining optimism about the case, which, until recently seemed to be just a conspiracy theory of Nick's to distract from the miserable process of grieving for a best friend.

Nick cut the silence. "The first digit is 9."

They stared at it more discerningly. Try as they might, neither could get a head around whose locker number that was.

"Isn't that the locker Holly Gribbs used to have?" Greg asked.

And then it dawned on Nick. This had to be the one.

Greg approached the locker "Locker number 9. Hello to you too."

"Heh," said Nick, still trembling with anticipation. _Hello, goodbye. I'll be with more than hello if you feel like working._

He plugged in three numbers again, never getting a click either. His good spirits dropped with every turn of the locker that was utterly indistinguishable to the so-called lock breaker next to him.

But as he pulled the lever, he heard a new, far more heartening sound.

It clicked. And it opened.

Snatching the first papers in sight, Nick and Greg began poring over the evidence. It was in the process of such examination that they didn't notice the same mysterious figure standing behind them.

"I'll go get my camera," announced Greg, stuffing the waitress's sheet in his pocket for safekeeping – and as a memento of a wonderfully helpful woman. "And we might want to take these someplace else. Someplace so our coworkers – including the potential spy – can't read into our investigation."

"Good thinking," Nick said, removing the paper from the locker and closing its door.

As he turned to watch Greg leave, something hard connected with his head.

As he rolled over, stunned, he could barely make out a familiar voice. "Stop looking Nicky. You've gotta stop looking."

* * *

Now that you're done with the chapter, maybe you want to review? wink wink nudge nudge. Good choice :)

harper


	10. 10 Antagonism

Thanks SO much to LaughableBlackStorm, GregsLabRat (love the name) and SuzSeb for the reviews and reading, and especially to lostladyknight and Mma63, who have been reviewing for the whole story :) Seeing 5 reviews for the last chapter really did make my day. Also, muchas thanks to PisceanPal and Racefh (whose SN I realize, after all of this time, I have been misspelling as raceofh). More action here, and more to come. Enjoy!

Harper

* * *

**CHAPTER 10: Antagonism**

Nick, still stunned, registered being met by a blindfold, and being dragged to a corner of the locker room. A few kicks rained down on his stomach.

"I hate to do this," said the disguised, whispering voice. "You weren't listening when I asked you, and I don't have too many other ways of stopping you. I hope this will make you get the message."

He kicked Nick again before knocking him in the head one last time, and sending Nick into unconsciousness.

"Stop looking Nicky. You gotta stop looking," he said as he took the blindfold.

* * *

Heading back to the locker room, camera in tow, Greg turned the corner and pulled the door. It was locked.

_That's odd._

He could make out footsteps in the room, before hearing the window open. He started banging on the door more loudly, before realizing the downside of creating such a commotion.

Pulling a key out of his pocket, he pushed it in and turned the door knob.

Inside, he was greeted by the sight of Holly Gribbs' locker. None of the recently discovered papers were in sight.

He took a step closer, before noticing a shadow moving in the corner of the locker room. Startled, he pulled out his gun. "Who's there?" He asked anxiously.

"Ahhh." A groan erupted from the source of the movement, which now appeared to be a slumped form.

"Nicky?"

"Thought… I… told… you… not… to… call… me cough that." Nick slowly let out, as he rubbed his head, grabbing the bench to help propel himself to his feet, adding a moan for effect.

"What the hell happened?"

"I have no idea. Some guy… Don't know who… sounded familiar… man, I'm sore. Said to stop looking… blindfold… kicked me… You woke me up and that's the last I remembered."

_Great. Watch him have amnesia, seeing how our luck's been goin' this past week. Then we'll have a _real_ soap opera._ "You remember what we were doing before?" Greg asked hopefully.

"Yeah…" Nick squinted, lost in thought – but not for long. "The evidence… the locker!"

He turned to the locker, to find the door still wide open, but all of Warrick's notes gone.

One paper, however, remained inside.

On it was typed, "STOP LOOKING… OR ELSE." Next to it was a picture of a dead body, brutalized by Gedda's forces. Nick winced looking at the graphic torture.

* * *

As soon as Nick had had a chance to rest, and an aspirin, he insisted on discussing the events of the case further.

"If someone went through the trouble of knockin' me out, and stealin' all o' Warrick's stuff, than it must have been important. We must have been gettin' somewhere," Nick reasoned, trying to find the bright side in what had just happened.

"Or maybe it actually is important that we don't mess with this case. Maybe someone has a perfectly good reason for wanting us to stay in the dark about this."

"Yeah," Nick guffawed dismissively. "To save their own ass!"

Greg rolled his eyes. "That could be an explanation."

Nick rubbed his head. "In Warrick's notes, he definitely made it sound like it was someone on the team…"

Greg interrupted. "When did the notes start?"

Nick scrunched up his face, thinking again. "Uh… it sounded like it was right after Candy's murder… or at least that was where I read from."

"So after Sara left."

"Yeah… yeah that sounds right."

"Good thing. At least we can clear her. I'd hate it if Sara was the mole."

"I hate it that it's _any_ member of our team that's the mole."

Greg re-thought it. "Yeah, I see what you mean. I mean, what does that leave us? Cath and Griss? And did it mention CSI specifically, or not? Could it be Brass? Cause that sure would make it interesting, considering his last conversation with Grissom."

"Grissom!"

Greg looked up from his hands, which he'd been staring at quite intently for the entire conversation.

"He's the mole!"

Greg raised an eyebrow. "Why—"

"Think about it. That conversation with Brass? Did he even tell us about it? No. He as good as knew that we were continuing on in our investigation AND that there was a mole involved in whatever happened to Warrick, but he didn't bother to tell us that. Now did he?"

"If he's the mole, then why would he let us keep up the investigation?"

"Because he knew he couldn't stop us."

Greg raised the other eyebrow. "That actually makes sense."

Nick rolled his eyes. "No kidding." He continued. "And he only 'let us keep up the investigation,' as you said, after asking us to stop it – after learning that there was no way he _could_ get us to stop… He's got to be the mole."

_Or he could just be concerned for our safety…_ "Well, if it is Grissom, then we'll be catchin' evidence when hell freezes over. He's _the_ CSI man. There's no way he's just leavin' clues around so we know it's him. _Especially_ when he knows we're investigating him. Plus, don't you think if it really were Grissom, wouldn't he use something more interesting to knock you out with? I mean, he's the Bug Man. Violence isn't really his style. If he were gonna knock someone out, he'd use something interesting, like… spider venom."

Nick looked over at his raving partner, peeved.

"I mean, if it were Grissom that knocked you out, I bet he was just opening the door, carrying a big container with some exciting new bug in it. In a hurry to see it do its one-time molting, flying or whatever trip out the window, he accidentally hits you in the head with the bug aquarium. Still in too much of a hurry to be bothered with us pesky humans, he rushes to the window to let it out. He locked the door to prevent anyone from getting in and messing with this exciting event."

"Then where is he now?"

"Out the window?"

Nick rolled his eyes again. "I can hardly imagine Griss climbing out windows."

"There's a fire escape out back."

Nick's expression turned further to incredulous. "What keeps givin' you the idea that the window had anything to do with it, anyhow?"

"I dunno." _I heard it open. Duh!_

Nick rolled his eyes yet again. "We're gettin' nowhere, though I have to say, it's pretty hard to believe that Grissom's involved with this."

"Moles are mammals, and they really aren't his thing. If Griss were the sneaky underground guy here for Gedda, then Brass would be talking about a cockroach in the department, not a mole."

Nick, though still more than a little disturbed by the events of the past hour, laughed and got up, making way to finish up his cases, head home and ponder the situation. Motioning for Greg to follow, he headed out the door.

* * *

Thanks so much for reading! Hope you enjoyed the new chapter. As usual, reviews are very much loved :) Hope everyone had a nice weekend!

I am now taking guesses from the audience on who you think the mole and/or suspicious stranger is. If you get it right, well, I don't actually have a prize, nor will I tell you and ruin the surprise, but I'm very curious to see if anyone can figure it out.

Just so you know, most of the story is already written. I know how frustrating it is to be getting really into a story and then discover that it's basically being discontinued, and I promise that this one will not fall into that category. It's basically finished, so it's just a matter of posting, which will still be every 1-2 days.

Thanks again for reading and I hope you're liking it so far :)

Harper


	11. 11 and 12 Sleeping Confessions

Chapter 11 is pretty dull (just Nick and Greg talking). However, I thought it was an important chapter to include, just to make sure everyone's caught up to speed. Nonetheless, it seemed a little cruel to just give you that, so instead I'm posting chapters 11 and 12 together, as 12 is more exciting. More love to my loyal readers. Thanks to lostladyknight and sasukesmyemo for reviews last chap :)

Happy reading to all,

Harper

* * *

**CHAPTER 11: A Little (More) Conversation**

As Greg rushed off to hand over the case file on the Pembleton break-in. The similarly sleep-deprived, and very rushed, DA took the file wordlessly and turned the corner for her office.

"That was for the Pembleton case," Greg yelled at her as she disappeared down the hall.

"Whatcha yellin' for?" Nick asked as he caught up.

"Nothin. So… what case are you working on right now?"

"Yours."

"Was I murdered or something?"

Nick chuckled. "No, silly. I'm working on the Pembleton case."

"You mean the one I just turned in to the DA – and the one I've spent the last week waiting for trace and DNA on…?"

"Yup." Nick winked.

"Heh. Nice."

"All the more time for more important cases."

"Every case is important," Greg said frowning. "You taught me that… or actually, Sara taught me that." He redirected, looking Nick in the eye, "Don't put Warrick's case, which, I feel compelled to mention, isn't actually even an assignment, over your actual work. To quote a great man, 'The crime rate in Vegas isn't slowing down.'"

"Gil Grissom."

"Very good young grasshopper."

"If I were a grasshopper, don't you think he would have eaten me by now?"

Greg through back his head and laughed. "So what have you actually been working on lately?"

"Griss has pretty much given me free reign,… considerin' the circumstances." Nick shuffled his feet. "Personally, I'd take that as an implied 'okay' on our investigation. He's lettin' us have more time to investigate what we feel is more important."

"Or as acknowledgement that you're going through a tough time, given that your best friend just died, and Grissom, being the nice guy that he is, is trying to cut you some slack," Greg corrected.

Nick averted eye contact.

"And you're betraying that trust and taking advantage of Grissom's generosity and concern for you."

Nick's face grew redder. "I'm just doin' what I think is necessary. Griss knows we're runnin' this investigation. And he hasn't stopped us."

"Correction. He hasn't been _able_ to stop us."

"So you're sayin' he's the mole."

"I'm saying he called us into his office, after a nasty call from the Feds, and politely requested us to stop our investigation. You refused the request. And I'm sure Griss is now just concerned for your safety."

"If he wanted to get me to stop investigating, he would have given me more casework!" Nick exclaimed, overjoyed by the epiphany that, to him, meant that his boss, who was, in reality, like a father to him, was not the mole.

"Well, you could take it that way. He could just be concerned for your well-being."

But, to Nick, both explanations pointed to a verdict of innocent for Gil Grissom. "Well, either way, Griss is good and, more importantly, we're done with our case –"

Greg smirked, interrupting. "_Our_ case. Nice."

Nick smiled back. "_Anyways_, now we have time to do more on Warrick."

"Fine, but let's not leave the lab this time. We can at least try to look productive – or at least like we're not totally ditching work."

They headed back to the cold case files.

Nick, gripping his handy notepad, ran down the list of possibilities – possible scenes, possible evidence, possible key witnesses and sources of the slightest bits of information and – the thing that scared him the most, but that he was most tempted to push to the back of him mind – possible moles.

Starting at the most benign topic, he pondered possible scenes.

"What do we know?" he asked, thinking aloud.

"In normal, practical CSI lingo, I'd say we have nothing that will hold up in court," Greg observed in a monotone.

Nick leaned back on his chair, and recited. "We have five known murders. The first one was Jason Lewes. We've already established that Gedda's gang was responsible for that one, though we don't know which of his henchmen, specifically, killed Lewes and stuck him in the garbage truck."

"You wanna run the garbage truck again?" asked Greg, who was still fascinated by the ancient artifacts of past Vegas decades left to rot in the garbage truck. To the Vegas mob history buff, all was priceless memorabilia.

"Nah. That scene was ours from the get-go, so it's been processed thoroughly enough, under the more than sufficient eyes of Grissom."

"Who you are now convinced is not a mole?"

"Yeah. I guess. We haven't found anything to indicate him as a mole yet. And I'd rather wait to find evidence to the contrary before jumping to that conclusion. Think about it: if we find any evidence – any tiny trace left behind at any of the murder scenes – then we can pretty much comfortably rule out Grissom, because he's simply too good a CSI to leave us any clues."

"What if he leaves clues just because he knows we'll think that?"

"It's the Feds investigating, not us. Or at least that's what the mole would have been assuming. So, even if it were Grissom, he wouldn't plant evidence based on the farfetched prediction that we, Warrick's teammates, would be the ones investigating."

Greg could see Nick's logic.

"Okay then," he started. "Next scene."

"Joanna Cromsky."

"The stripper."

"We don't have the evidence from that one, at least not as much, because they tried to get Warrick for that one again. And it looks pretty clear that he was framed, and that the scene was processed."

"Yup."

"And it's gonna be pretty darn hard to get into the scene anyways," Nick continued.

"True again, seeing as it's one of Gedda's old haunts."

"Almost certainly still one of his remaining gang's haunts."

"It's their safehold," Greg agreed.

"So…" Nick began again.

"We should leave that one for later as well. It's gonna be dangerous, and difficult, not to mention borderline not-allowed."

"True… So next murder?"

"The PI."

"Hmm. Don't know where to start with that one."

"It feels like we kind of got distracted from that one while trying to de-frame Warrick."

"Is de-frame even a word?"

"As the Stanford whiz-kid, I hereby pronounce 'de-frame' a word."

"Very funny Greg. So you want to get back to that case?"

"Sure. But let's see if it's the most important one first."

"Okay. Next up is Gedda."

"We're definitely not allowed near that one. Plus we've already got a man for that."

"True," acknowledged Nick, though he still felt there was something missing from the case, aside from Daniel Pritchard.

"Next."

"Warrick."

They both stared in silence before Nick verbalized what they both already knew. "I don't know where to start with that one."

"The Feds are probably keeping that one _close_ underwraps. I wouldn't want to mess with that."

"So basically, what you're saying, or what _we're_ sayin', is that we've got nothin'."

"Something like that."

Nick looked glumly. "We've got two team members, plus maybe even Sara, that could possibly pan out to be the mole, but that we sure as hell hope don't include the mole. We have two scenes – Pritchard's and the PI's – that have already been investigated thoroughly by CSI. We have one – Candy's – which will be near impossible to investigate due to location and conflict of interest, which almost certainly put it on IAB's, if not the Feds' – docket. We have one" – He still flinched as he said his best friend's name – "that is being investigated by the Feds and that will, consequentially, be next to impossible for us to investigate." He paused. "And then we have the case of the PI."

"Contrary to what seems like wisdom you're espousing –" Greg was interrupted by a paging beeper. The rushed DA, who really ought to have let him explain the case, or at least give its name, in the first place. "We'll continue this conversation later."

* * *

**CHAPTER 12: Sleeping Confessions**

"For now, we can provisionally eliminate Grissom as a possible mole."

"Based on his willingness to let you off of work."

Nick nodded.

"Well, that takes corrupt officeroom politics to a whole new level. Nice work Nicky."

"Plus, I just can't imagine it bein' Griss."

"Well, can you imagine Cath bein' the mole?"

"Eh," Nick thought, still bitter over his last confrontation with the redhead. "She has the connections."

"Certainly more than Griss. At least in the human world. I feel like we're kinda conducting this investigation – and conversation – on the assumption that roaches – or any other insects – were not behind this conspiracy."

"Hey, I'm just thinking practically. Wouldn't want to get surprised like Will Smith was in Men in Black when his nemesis turned out to be a giant cockroach and he didn't realize it until the big roach was crawlin' up the tower, carrying the girl."

"Uhuh."

"Hey. It's a highly realistic movie. Wouldn't want to miss out on the infinite lessons it has to teach –_Leave out no species when considering your nemesis_—"

"That's a very awkwardly worded moral."

"Didn't think _you'd _notice, Mr. Texas Slang."

Nick feigned insult.

"And we hardly know if squashing his cockroach brethren will even work in this situation."

"I never quite got that part. How would squashing cockroaches distract him? I mean, he was going up and away to destroy the entire world – that meant _all_ cockroaches were gonna be dead."

"Hmm. Good question."

"Highly realistic movie."

"No doubt." Greg released a trademark grin. "My point, however, --"

"You didn't have a point."

"Fine. Touché."

"But back to Catherine, after highly logical forays into the possibilities of alien cockroach intervention, which we may or may not be able to deal with…"

Greg grinned.

"So ya think Catherine could be the mole?"

"I honestly think it could be anyone. I'm pretty lost on this."

"Maybe we need to pay Cath a visit – in a public setting, at least one that's safe if she is the mole."

"I can't believe we're talking about Cath this way."

"Yeah. I know. But we need to rule out potential moles. Griss is out of the picture for the moment."

"As is the rest of the bug world."

"As is Sara, I guess."

Greg looked up, startled. "I _really_ can't believe we're bringing up Sara on this one."

"Well, it's possible –"

"She's been in Frisco."

"Or so she says. If she's the mole –"

Greg shook his head. He refused to believe that Sara Sidle, his hero, mentor _and probably best friend_ could be the mole. "If she's the mole _within the department_, then why would she _quit _the department?"

"Even moles can still have legitimate normal emotional problems."

"Yeah, but unlike the rest of us, they'd have to worry about someone like Lou Gedda killin' them for letting those legitimate emotional problems get in the way of their mole work."

"True."

"Let's start with Catherine. I think I know where we can find her."

Nick somberly nodded. "Actually, why don't we start at her place?"

"That sounds like a highly risky endeavor."

"But the best way to catch her if she's the mole."

Greg didn't like the idea. Greg _really_ didn't like the idea. But he went along with it, knowing there was no stopping Nick.

* * *

The lights were off at Catherine's house, and her car was nowhere in sight, so the investigators felt confident entering the empty house – or at least as confident as possible, given the circumstances. Both, nonetheless, drew guns from their holsters, as discreetly as possible, as they walked up the front steps.

"Okay lockbreaker. Work your magic."

Greg rolled his eyes. _Breaking into a coworker's house is hardly the magic I had in mind._ Before he even touched the knob, he looked around, registering possible locations for a key. _Doormat. No, that's too typical. Cath's a crime scene investigator. She knows not to put it someplace commonplace and obvious like that_. _Mailbox. No. Then the mailman would see it too._ _Hmm… Cath's tough. _

"Lookin' for something?"

"A key."

"Ah. That makes sense."

"Hey, I'll check the doormat and mailbox. You check wherever."

Nick looked around thoughtfully, before reaching his hand into a flowerpot on the ground.

"Try lifting it up."

Nick picked up the flowerpot, surprised to see a key lying there.

"Bingo. Open 'er up cowboy."

Nick put the key in the door, gently turning it and walking in quietly.

A noise inside the house startled him.

"Riiiiit!?" screamed a teary voice. "Riiii, is that you?" The intensity of the voice mounted.

Nick looked to his friend, mid-step behind him and equally startled.

"Riiii, please!" The intensity in Catherine's voice escalated. "Please, I knew you'd come back. I love you."

They saw Catherine, tossing and turning in her sleep on the couch, hair disheveled, no doubt, at least in part, due to another haphazard night on the town.

A tall, dark-skinned man was pushing himself up off the same couch.

"Geez, you're crazy," he said groggily, before turning to face Greg and Nick. "What the?!" he registered in alarm.

Greg put a finger to his lips. "Don't say anything."

The terrified man, seeing the guns in both investigators' hands, obliged.

Greg motioned the man outside, and he and Nick quietly followed.

The man, still shaking, looked up to Greg and Nick, and then down to their guns. In the growing light, Nick could see his light eyes and poofed out hair. _More than a little similar to Warrick_.

"Hi. I'm really sorry to startle you," Greg began.

The man looked at him incredulously, not expecting to be politely held up. An idea dawning on him, he quickly and nervously asked, "Wait, are you – or one of you – her husband? She said she used to have a husband, but I swear, she said she was divorced. I didn't mean to get in the way of someone's marriage."

Greg quickly shook his head, cutting the man off.

"So then one of you must be Warrick?"

Greg and Nick looked at each other in shock. It dawned on them. That's what Catherine had been moaning in her sleep:

"Riiiii" was really "Rick" in Catherine's inebriated and dreaming state.

"One of you is Warrick, right?" the slowly calming man asked again.

Nick shook his head. "We both work for LVPD. Cath too," he said, motioning to the door. "Warrick was one of our colleagues. He was recently murdered."

"Was he also her boyfriend?"

Nick, slightly shocked at the statement, didn't know how to reply. _Were Warrick and Catherine an item? He sensed some chemistry, but hardly to the degree that would leave Catherine yelling Warrick's name in her sleep. Unless,…_

Suddenly feeling guilty for breaking into his obviously heartbroken and grieving friend's house, he looked down at the ground.

Greg, after a long pause, finally answered the question. "Not that we know of. What makes you think he was?"

"She kept accidentally calling me Warrick. And she seemed distracted. Trust me. When someone's that crazy about someone else, it's just obvious. We met at a bar, and somehow she ended up mentioning her work, and how there was this guy named Warrick… and then she just clammed up. Something was really wrong. She had this dreamy look in her eyes whenever she mentioned him. She was really starting to get wasted too. Every time, without fail, that she mentioned his name, she'd stop and either swig down her shot, or order another. I just assumed he was her ex…"

"She was in love with him," Nick blurted, giving voice to the thoughts going through both Greg's and his minds. "Uh… we should get going. Sorry for… intruding."

"No worries. We weren't doing anything. She was too upset. I tried to just help her calm down."

"Sure. Just don't tell her we stopped by."

"I was about to be heading out the door myself, now that she's asleep. I drove her back – felt sorry for her."

"It's cool man. We can tell why she was throwing herself at you. You… look kinda like Warrick."

The man grimaced. "Oh… I see. That takes rebound guy to another, kinda creepy extreme."

"Yeah."

"Well… nice… um meeting you guys."

"You too."

As the man closed the door, they heard Catherine yell out again in her sleep, and this time they could distinctly make out the name Warrick. "Riiiick… don't leave me now… Please… don't leave me… I really do love you… I'm sorry for not telling you…" Her sobs became louder. "Please don't be dead Warrick."

* * *

As Nick and Greg stepped back into the car, Nick summarized the only conclusion of the surreal encounter. "She couldn't have killed him. She can't be the mole."

BAM

Nick slammed his hand on the steering wheel. "Shit!"

"You're disappointed that Catherine's not the mole?"

"I'm disappointed because I'm a CSI. I'm disappointed because I'm used to dealing with evidence, not hypotheticals. I'm disappointed because hypotheticals and statements and emotions are what we have. As for actual evidence, we've got nada."

"Well said."

Nick began driving. "I don't know where to go from here. We've ruled out Griss and Catherine."

"Albeit without solid evidence, and based entirely on hypotheticals."

"Thanks for rainin' on my parade."

"That parade you already canceled."

"Yeah."

"So where to for now, Batman? The BatMobile isn't gonna steer itself."

"No, but sometimes it feels like that's what it's doin'."

"Man, I hear ya."

Nick steered toward the lab. "Don't trust anybody, okay?"

Greg looked up.

"Don't tell anybody. Don't assume anybody's not the mole. We have no solid proof. As CSIs, we don't make any assumptions without proof. For now, it's guilty until proven innocent, for anybody."

"Okay."

"Okay," Nick said conclusively, as he pulled into the lab.

* * *

Thanks so much for reading. Reviews are loved, and definitely feel free to venture a guess as to who the mole is at this point.

:)

Harper


	12. 13 Trust

Hey all,

Here's another relatively slow chapter. (Sorry, but I spoiled y'all with the last two chap's, so humor me on the slow one this time). Unlike chapter 11, which was more just to summarize everything important, this one, I think, really is a turning point for Nick, and somewhat Greg's, emotional experience in the case. Plus, as a Sandle fan, this chapter does make me very happy, even if there's no concrete action. Thanks to LaughableBlackStorm, Mma63, Sasukesemyemo and Lostladyknight for the wonderful reviews! And, of course, thanks to PisceanPal and Racefh for continuing beta and advice. Ooh, and there's another Homicide: Life on the Streets character referenced here, in case anyone else has seen that show (which you should!).

Enjoy!

Harper

* * *

**CHAPTER 13: Trust**

Grissom had a new case for them.

Nick was happy that he and Greg would have the next scene together. It would make it easier to discuss the case that was really gnawing away at him, and would also spare him from worrying about working with the mole – at least assuming the other mole was, unlike Pritchard, not a regular police officer.

Nick was not, however, happy that it was a decomp. And he knew that, after doing all the work on their last case, and after breaking the redball before it, Greg would be entirely within his unwritten rights in pulling rank on Nick.

Most of all, he would be within his unwritten rights, according to the equally unwritten code of friendship and favors, given the help he had given Nick throughout Nick's investigation of Warrick's murder.

The case was a murder, though it looked – at least at first glance – to be relatively clean-cut, literally and figuratively. The victim had his throat neatly sliced in what appeared to be a simple mugging gone awry.

The vic's name was Tim Bayliss. He ran a website on Buddhism and appeared to have been walking back from one of Vegas's many 24-hour convenience stores carrying milk and cookies.

Two lovers fooling around in the alley had spotted the corpse after they felt the splash of the milk, which had spilled open on the cracked pavement. The box of cookies was open, and someone had taken a bite out of one cookie, which Nick bagged for evidence.

Greg brushed the handle of the milk for fingerprints, while Super Dave confirmed that the victim was killed when the perp cut his throat with a knife.

With no wallet visible, Greg and Nick headed back to the lab in the same Denali with footage from the convenience store security camera, the bitten cookie, the gallon of milk and a short dark grey hair found on the back of the vic's collar.

Nick thought about milk and cookies. They represented innocence. Though he didn't know the vic, and though he normally was able to avoid feeling much for the victim, he couldn't help but feel sorry for this one – probably, he recognized, more because of the given week than the victim himself.

He also couldn't help but remark at the simplicity of the case. Though the most publicized of the CSI's cases were more complex, with significantly less evidence and significantly more winding trails and stories, this one was typical.

The bruising and position of the DB suggested a single assailant. The hair did not match the vic, and the fingerprints looked like they would give two distinct results – the perp and the victim. Though they didn't have the evidence back yet from Mandy, Wendy or Hodges, he felt fairly confident based on the samples he was bringing back that this perp was no brilliant criminal mastermind.

Yet why then did he feel so lost on Warrick's case, he wondered. Why _didn't_ the case unravel easily, with evidence as simple as the DNA on a bitten cookie, left behind unwittingly with the body? Why couldn't all crooks be so stupid?

At this, he thought back on the twists and turns of the last few months, and that, overall, in his research, Gedda's gang was known for. Whoever pulled this off, including the mole in the department, had to be very smart, and very good at concealing evidence.

He turned to his partner, who he had given driving privileges in exchange, per usual, for music choice. He turned down the new Shania Twain song blasting out the car speakers to ask Greg, "Do you think Sara could have pulled this off?"

Greg immediately pulled over.

Nick had seen Greg sad before. When a woman had wound up indistinguishable due to third-degree burns, living on a ventilator as her husband watched, tears in her eyes, and Greg had shown him his wife's wedding ring – pulled off the charred barely-not-dead body, the husband had not been the only one to cry, though Greg had done his best to appear stoic, letting the tears barely permeate his lower eyelids.

Nick had seen Greg anxious before. Their team had been through more than it's share of drama, including attempts on virtually every member's lives, and, on those occasions, none of the survivors waiting on the sidelines came out truly unscathed.

Nick had seen Greg at an explosion of emotions as well – fear, guilt, anger and humiliation among them –, especially during the Demetrius James ordeal, which had, Nick acknowledged, left his friend a different person.

That said, Nick had never seen this particular concoction of emotions, at such furor, strike his friend, as when he asked Greg if Sara Sidle could be a mole.

They sat in silence as Greg's face morphed rapidly and Nick watched tensely for a good thirty seconds.

"Are you fucking crazy?!" Greg suddenly yelled, turning to Nick and appearing posed to murder.

Nick stared in fear at his friend.

"Sara Sidle? OUR Sara Sidle? The Sara Sidle who is the most compassionate, kind, brave, noble, loyal, beautiful, wonderful, amazing woman – or person in general – that I know?!"

Nick took a deep breath. To say he didn't expect this reaction would be an understatement.

"Are you out of your mind?!" Greg added, seemingly for effect.

"No… err… I'm just pondering the possibilities."

"Pondering the possibilities. Then you should know that's not a possibility. Not. A. Possibility. It's not. First of all, Sara is too much of every one of those adjectives I just listed," Greg said, calming down. "Second of all, she's in Frisco. There's only so much she can do from there. Third," he said taking a deep breath and seeming to get that he'd just let loose such an outburst, "would Gedda have picked her if she'd had those problems… I mean... she hasn't always been so stable," he acknowledged somberly.

Nick dared a response, hoping it would not again enrage his friend. "The loyalty and stuff would become irrelevant…" He slowed down, watching for a reaction from Greg. "If, for some reason, she thought she was doing the right thing." He watched Greg's expression change, ever so slowly. "If she was in Frisco…" Nick thought for a moment, scrambling for an answer he did not want. "She could have delegated work to Grissom?" he ventured.

At this, Greg laughed. "Delegated to Grissom? Yeah, that'll be the day. Reason number four why Sara Sidle can't be the mole – the mole would not be sharing work, let alone with an LVPD supervisor. Reason number five – Have you thought about how hard it would be, hiding that kind of stuff from _Grissom_? It's hard enough hiding stuff – assuming it has nothing to do with emotion – from him if you're _working_ with him, let alone _living_ or even," at this Greg's face dropped again and his voice quieted, "_sleeping_ with him. If she were a mole, she wouldn't have dated Grissom," he said, still in a restrained tone. _Not that I would mind if she _weren't_ dating Grissom, even if it meant I had one less reason she wasn't a mole_, he thought.

Nick could see the logic. He laughed. "Thanks Greg."

Greg turned around, puzzled at Nick's seeming forgiveness of Greg's sudden vicious onslaught of emotion.

"Thanks for showing me someone I care about who still is definitely a good guy… who I can still trust."

Greg said, understanding, "No prob."

"Actually, thanks for showing me two, one I can count on who's not here…" Nick said, growing emotional. "And one who is here," he added, glancing meaningfully at Greg.

"No prob," said Greg, looking down bashfully, and somewhat sadly.

* * *

Hope you liked it! New one coming tomorrow. As usual, I'd looovee it if you felt like pushing that wonderful little purple button to the side. Reviews 3.

Thanks for sticking with my story and hope you liked the chap,

Harper


	13. 14 Star Wars

Hey all. This is a more light chapter, though personally I love it. You might guessed, just from seeing the chapter title, that this involves the lab techs. Which means you can expect a few small Wedges on the side. And on overdose of the Hodgemeister... hehe... his name is so funny. Anyways, enjoy. And much thanks to LostLadyKnight, GregsLabRat and Mma63 for reviews on the last chapter and also to all of my other wonderful loyal readers and reviewers. Enjoy!

Harper

* * *

**CHAPTER 14: Star Wars**

They pulled into the lab yet again, taking a mailrun through the lab, dropping off samples as they went.

"This, Hodges," Greg said, dropping a bag of evidence over Hodges head. "is for you."

"Well I'm honored, young Skywalker."

"Since when am I young Skywalker?"

"Since you're Nick's sidekick."

Greg thought it over for a second, before replying, "I guess that sounds good. As long as I get the girl."

"_Hans Solo_ gets the girl, stupid. That girl, Princess Leia, is Luke's _twin sister_."

"Ooh." Greg said, closing his mouth quickly. _I guest that does describe my relationship with Sara almost accurately. I guess she's just the more intelligent, beautiful, amazing twin…_

"You know, actual dialogue with the Hodgemeister, aka Yoda, is generally a lot more interesting than internal monologues in Luke's head."

"I thought Nick was Yoda? If I'm his sidekick, then he's my mentor."

"That means he's Obi-Wan Kenobi." _Duh._

"Oh." Greg paused and thought for another minute. "But then wouldn't Grissom be Yoda? I mean… he's the sagely one."

"Can you honestly imagine Yoda and Princess Leia getting it on?"

Both men, as well as Archie, who was eavesdropping from the AV lab, cringed. Archie, the most loyal fan of both Star Wars and Star Trek, in fact cringed so loudly, falling off his chair, that he elicited both men's stares. "I'm alright," they could make out from the AV lab.

"Eavesdropper!" Hodges, who had grown accustomed to the culture of the lab, yelled at the source of the loud 'Kerplunk.'

Greg, on the other hand, was pondering a more important question, "So Griss is Hans Solo?"

"Don't look so shocked!" Hodges said, in true Hodges-style sarcastic style.

"But doesn't Nick seem like more the big, brauny hero guy?"

"But him and Sara," Hodges questioned.

Greg cringed again. That thought disturbed him more than the idea of Yoda and Princess Leia getting it on.

"Exactly," said the mind-reading Yoda Hodges.

"Sara doesn't necessarily have to be Leia."

"Really? Then who would be, Wendy?" _Because then, I'd gladly step in as Hans Solo_.

"I was thinking more in terms of the field."

"Catherine?"

Greg paused, suddenly remembering the events of the previous night, where they had seen Catherine's heartbreak. _That would mean that Hans Solo did die._

"You know, at the beginning of the third Star Wars, a very sly, sneaky – and of course sexy – Princess Leia sneaks in to free Hans Solo, who has been frozen alive, thus saving her lover…"

"So Catherine goes to the morgue and unfreezes Warrick's dead body – that's probably not even at the morgue, since IAB took over the case?"

Hodges bit his lip.

"Here's the evidence. I need it back… well not really ASAP. Just make sure one of you lab techs gets it back soon, just because we dropped off so much evidence, evidence which I expect to match to a 't'."

Hodges, however, was still too distracted by the image of Wendy Simms with Princess Leia-style twin hair buns. _And in the Jabba the Hut scene…_ He drooled, remembering a scarcely clad Leia entertaining the grotesque monster, who had suddenly, in Hodges' dreams, been replaced by a handsome lab tech. _Or maybe he was even there to rescue Wendy – err, Leia. Ah… these are the things that teenage dreams are made of…_, he thought as Greg moved on to the next lab, to deposit the security footage at the door of the still-trying-to-eavesdrop Archie.

Greg left Hodges' lab knowing that Catherine really was the best Leia. _She can definitely fill out the Jabba the Hut outfit best. But more importantly, she just has a … something… to her. A confidence, a determination… a type of emotional intelligence that Sara hasn't always had… And Warrick._

As he opened the door, he heard a familiar voice. "You know, I think Star _Trek _would be a better analogy. We work as a team."

"Thanks Archie."

* * *

"We need concrete evidence," Nick remarked, after they had finished their evidence run for the Bayliss case.

"Isn't that what we just dropped off?"

"You know which case I'm talking about."

Greg always knew, but he always hoped, at the back of his mind, that his buddy was back to old tricks and just doing his job, rather than embarking on near-impossible quests._ Then maybe Nick is Luke Skywalker… And that would make Sara his sister… And me Hans Solo?… Nah. Archie's right. I'll stick with Star _Trek_._

Nick stared at him as he laughed at his fictional interplanetary analogies, and mainly at the image of Yoda and Princess Leia getting it on. "What's so funny?"

"Oh, sorry. It's just something Hodges said in the lab."

"Fill me in. I could use some humor right now?"

"Hodges humor? You must be desperate."

"_Au contraire, _my friend," remarked the approaching topic of conversation. "Hodges humor is a rare – well not even so rare – delicacy."

"Hello Ronald," Greg deadpanned.

"Since when did my name cease being Hodgemeister?"

Greg and Nick looked at each other, equally stuck between humor and incredulousness. Greg responded, "since you made the food metaphor."

Hodges looked stumped, which was – to Nick – a refreshing change.

"Ronald McDonald, you heard of him?"

Hodges scowled.

"Always the same food, and it's certainly no rare delicacy, though it may be junk food and, if you're lucky, comfort food. And it's never good for you."

Hodges' scowl deepened.

"And when did you get to eavesdropping?" asked the more alarmed Nick.

"I don't eavesdrop. I'm just like Batman. When my symbol – or rather, in this place, since there isn't really a visible sky – when my name appears in conversation, I rush to the scene."

"So you actually catch Grissom every time he's complainin' 'bout you bein' a suck-up?" Nick quipped, at last vanquishing the trace tech, who rapidly scampered out of the room.

"Nice," Greg said.

"Back at you."

"Well, I like to think the skills I picked up, after years in training, at vanquishing these wonderful little rodents we call Hodgemeisters, has not been entirely lost." The both chuckled. "Probably the most useful skill I picked up in the lab."

"So true."

"Hey, you're not supposed to say that."

"Fine. But how often do you think he really eavesdrops?"

"Hodges?" Greg paused, realizing where Nick's line of questioning was going. "You really think he's the mole?"

"It would make sense."

"Yeah… yeah, I see what you mean. Huh…"

"You see how it makes sense."

"Yeah, but the one thing is… I definitely was under the impression it was someone in the field, from Brass's conversation."

Nick paused, remembering what he could of that conversation. He grimaced. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

Greg nodded.

"It probably wouldn't be that easy, now would it? I mean, everybody hates Hodges. No self-respecting suspense story would have him as the mole. It'd be too easy."

Greg broke out in laughter. "So true. And, for the record, I love how we're talking about this like we're on 24."

Nick chuckled back, realizing he had in fact spent too much time watching a TiVo'ed Jack Bauer tear apart departments and people.

They both cleared through their evidence stashes, double-checking that all had been deposited.

Nick spoke up again. "It's so frustrating not having solid evidence though. Not being able to go out and really question suspects, at least not with a valid LVPD escort, et al. Not being able to process and drop off tangible evidence at trace."

"Never thought I'd hear you say that. Guess that's why we let Hodges get as many words in edgewise as we did." Greg said the next line in baby-voice, "Because we missed his little Hodgemeister antics so much."

"I thought it was just because we liked watching him dig holes for himself to jump into headfirst."

"Well, that too."

"So you want to go out there and try to find some tangible evidence?"

"Sure, what have we got to lose?" Greg got up off the bench, following Nick. "I mean besides our careers, reputations, et al. Not that I don't mind being the tough vigilante… at least if Jody Foster is the model."

"You wanna stop with the pop culture references?"

"Never," Greg said, pretending to take out a sword and point it at Nick.

"Alright, Inigo Montoyo. Let's get our father-avenging butts in the car."

Yet Hodges was not the only eavesdropper, and Archie had not actually given up on the Star Wars analogy. Despite being a die-hard Trekkie, there was something refreshingly endearing about the epic of family, romance, betrayal, and ultimately love – _not to mention the Cold War_, a thought he dismissed – as he caught the last lines of Nick and Greg's conversation.

He headed back to the lab, though already lost in thought. _Father-avenging… Father being Warrick. Anakin Skywalker! Could Warrick have been the mole he'd heard Greg and Nick talking about? _Archie dismissed the thought to sleep deprivation, or at least too much time spent watching every sort of mole-prominent Sci-Fi re-run in the AV lab when nobody was looking.

* * *

Thanks so much for still stickin' with me. Make sure to press the lovely purple button if you're liking it :)


	14. 15 Hits

Thanks again to racefh and PisceanPal for continued beta and advice. Muchas gracias a GregsLabRat (who is also helping me stay good on my Spanish XD) and much thanks to Mma63 and LostLadyKnight, all for reviews on the last chapter. I don't really have anything extra to say about this chapter, so it will suffice to say Enjoy!

:)

Harper

* * *

**CHAPTER 15: Hits**

_"So you want to go out there and try to find some tangible evidence?"_

_"Sure, what have we got to lose?" Greg got up off the bench, following Nick. "I mean besides our careers, reputations, et al. Not that I don't mind being the tough vigilante… at least if Jody Foster is the model."_

_"You wanna stop with the pop culture references?"_

_"Never," Greg said, pretending to take out a sword and point it at Nick._

_"Alright, Inigo Montoyo. Let's get our father-avenging butts in the car."_

Their tangible evidence, unfortunately, would be the scene of Warrick's death, Nick elected.

"You said it was at… that alley… by the diner." Nick gulped. Even though he hadn't taken that redheaded waitress up on her offer – which probably didn't turn out to be an offer at all – he felt guilty. Guilty that he couldn't do anything to stop Warrick's death.

And now guilty that he was replacing Warrick. Greg was great. He really was trying his best to help Nick find his friend's killer. But he would never be his friend. At least not in the same way as Warrick. He knew Warrick respected Greg – that, to some degree, he admired the former lab tech's wit and unique brand of fearlessness, or at least lack of fear for humiliation. But, at the same, he had a feeling that Warrick would be insulted that Nick was replacing him with that same witty, shameless and, ultimately, dorky kid.

There it was. It was out in the open. That was why Nick had been subconsciously shunning his sidekick this whole time. He made a vow, as they struggled to figure out where, precisely, Warrick's car was parked, that he would go easier on Greg.

"I think I found it," Greg yelled from across the alleyway. "I see glass fragments. We can test them, but I have a feeling they'll come back to Warrick's car."

"Nice. I'm guessing the Feds are done investigating the scene. I knew they wouldn't pick up on quite as much as CSI."

"Or the expert skills of CSI Sanders."

"Or the expert skills of CSI's Sanders _and_ Stokes," Nick confirmed, smiling as he already lived up to his promise.

"Batman and Robin."

Nick grinned in confirmation. Suddenly this investigation wasn't seeming so long anymore.

Nick peered down at the ground, noticing some odd marking in the mud. "Hey Greg! I think I found something!"

Greg stopped scanning the nearby brick walls – which, aside from an old piece of gum, proved to be a mindless, pointless and, most importantly, evidence-less task – walked over to take a look at Nick's finding. "Looks like a footprint."

"Looks like a smudged footprint."

"We're not getting any evidence off this, are we?"

"I'd say not"

"Aw shucks."

"Pickin' up Texas slang, are ya?"

"Heh, guess I'm hangin' around with you too much, eh?"

"Or just enough. Texas slang beats California slang, and I haven't heard a 'hella' or 'cuddy' from you in… well I don't even remember hearing that from you since you were in the lab."

"I figured talking Cali made me sound a tad unprofessional. Ya know?"

"Well talkin' like a cowboy, don't make me unprofessional at all, don' it, partner?" Nick said, exaggerating his accent.

"Not at all, partner? It's all part of the Nick Stokes, Cowboy Extraordinaire Act…, ain't it?" Greg cringed as he said the word 'ain't,' while Nick laughed at his buddy's awkwardness.

"'Cowboy Extraordinaire Act,' ay? And what else is part of this act, other than leavin' off 'g's on my verbs or gerunds or whatever."

"Wow. I didn't even realize they taught grammar down there," Greg jokes.

"Hey now, let's not be dissin' my Aggies. They teach everythin' you need to know and more. Sure as hell taught me the cop work."

"Very true. I wasn't dissing A&M. Just Texas in general."

Nick punched him in the arm, knowing it was all a joke. "Aw, but what's Cali got on the longhorns."

"Hollywood?" Greg ventured. "And LA traffic."

"Hah, exactly."

"You produced the Bushes and we got Reagan. I'd say it's a toss-up."

"I'll say." Nick took one last look around the alley, having already done a quite thorough evaluation of all spaces within 100 feet of the assumed scene of the crime.

Greg picked up on Nick's prolonged silence and eye movement. "Ready to get going?"

"I'd say we have all the evidence we're gonna get outta this place," said Nick, as he continued to peer around.

"I'll take that as a 'yes.'" With that, they headed back to the Denali, though Nick felt slightly reluctant, even if he didn't know why – or at least if he couldn't think of anywhere else evidence would be hiding, or even any proof that there was more. He knew deep inside that they would have left already if this were any other scene.

Bagging up the tiny pieces of glass – which looked like they might bare fingerprints and hopefully even DNA, they headed back to Nick's house.

Given that they didn't want to arouse suspicion – especially since they didn't know who the mole was – they elected to wait until shift change, hoping that many of the CSI's would be preoccupied with new cases, and that the lab rats would, for the most part, be distracted with changing shifts. Though they were fairly confident that the mole worked in the field, they weren't quite ready to rule out any of the lab rats yet.

* * *

Because of Greg's experience in DNA, they started at the DNA lab. Though Greg had mixed feelings about a potential Wendy-Hodges relationship, he had to admit that – on this occasion – it was very much to their advantage. Wendy didn't appear to be leaving Hodges' trace lab anytime soon. At present, it looked like the two lab rats were either flirting unabashedly or talking about Star Trek again. Wendy appeared to be entirely oblivious to her lab being hijacked by its former owner.

Greg glanced anxiously over his shoulder, watching especially for Wendy's departure or the appearance of a coworker, when he got a hit – one that he didn't expect.

He did a retake. _It couldn't be…_ Sure he'd never liked the man, but _murder…?_ Distracted by the computer screen, he didn't notice the shadows lingering by the door.

As the sound of a slowly opening door caught his attention, he folded up the paper, closed out AFIS and slid away from the computer right as he saw the door to the lab open all the way.

* * *

Nick realized the desperation of the situation. He had to keep the tech silent. He had to rely on every ability that he had as a CSI, and he had to be willing to sacrifice every hint of pride and integrity that he had. He had only been forced to take this course of action once before in his life, and he lived with the decision every day, when this same lab tech gave him that evil eye.

Nick Stokes had to sing.

"I remember all my life," he crooned, exaggerating the volume changes as much as possible to give the line a feeling of intimacy. He narrowed his eyebrows. "Raining down as cold as ice." He stealthily averted his gaze, checking the lab and windows, not for potential moles this time, but for potential witnesses to this painful endeavor.

"A shadow of a man…A face through a window… Crying in the night…The night goes into." _Dammit. What does the night go into? Warning? Mourning? MORNING! _"Morning, just another…"

"Day." Mandy helped him, smirking.

"Hey, it's not like it's some crime in the lovely state of Texas – or any state – not to know the words to Barry Manilow," he warned her.

"Keep singing."

"Morning, just another day… Happy people pass my way… Looking in their eyes…"

"You're not done yet.

_Aw shucks._ "I see a memory…I never realized…you made me so happy, oh Mandy."

"The best part."

"Hey no interrupting. You're ruining the mood and breakin' the moment."

Mandy smirked again.

"Oh Mandy! Well you came and you gave without taking"

Mandy wooted and Nick rolled his eyes, but kept singing.

"But I sent you away, oh Mandy. Well you kissed me and stopped me from shaking. But I need you today, oh Mandy –"

Seeing Ecklie barging through the hall, Mandy quickly cut Nick off. "And here are your results, Mr. Stokes."

"Why thank you, Ms. Webster."

"My my," droned Ecklie. "It sure is nice to see such manners from sleep-deprived county employees."

"It's the southern way, ma'am – I mean sir," Mandy quickly replied, blushing.

Nick let out an uncharacteristic giggle.

Ecklie stared at the both, and then, looking scared, backed out of the room.

"Rest of the song. Now."

"Sorry, Ms. Southern Bell. I've got my results and now, like the true cowboy that I am, it's time for me to bust on outta this town."

"Aw you're leaving for good, Cowboy? Whatever are we to do in this town, without you and your…"

"Lovely baritone to liven up the mood?"

"Something like that."

"And Mandy?"

"Yeah?… you gonna burst out into song again?"

"Nah. Just wanted to say thanks. I know keepin' your eyes closed to somethin' runnin' through your lab seems a bit strange, but thanks."

"No problem. Anything for a Texas crooner."

Nick closed the door, results – yet to be looked at – folded away in his pocket. As he joined a shocked looking Greg in the DNA lab, checking around him for colleagues first – he looked down at his results for the first time, and took a step back in shock to mirror Greg's.

* * *

Greg and Nick raced back to Nick's house. They were no longer safe doing anything at the lab. Their results were identical, and it meant they – and the entire lab – were in trouble. If the mole was in fact what their results told them, anybody could be helping. Anybody – even Wendy or Mandy – could be helping.

Anybody in the lab could be the shadow lurking behind them at many a turn. Anybody could be the one to betray them to the mole, and on to Gedda's gang. Now, the only friend who was definitely on their side, ironically, was Warrick, and maybe Catherine as well.

Ecklie was definitely to be watched out for, though they could – fortunately – hardly imagine Grissom working for such a politicking scoundrel.

They were scared.

The very man they worked for, the undersheriff, was the mole.

They had no idea what their next step was, but they knew they had to get away from the lab. Now that the mole definitely knew about their investigation– as they could only assume if the Feds had called Grissom about it, given that the undersheriff stood between Grissom and the Feds – every move they made in the lab could be a deathtrap.

* * *

Thanks for reading, and make sure to review :)


	15. 16 Lots

Another chapter, and I'm happy to say it's now officially over halfway done, at least as posted goes. Right now I'm finishing up a few scenes in the last two chapters, so the writing is almost done as well. Hopefully I'll be halfway done writing the next story, which may or may not be a sequel, by the time this story is done posting. Thanks tons to PisceanPal and racefh for beta and advice and to LostLadyKnight, Sasukesmyemo and SawyerFan for reviews on the last chapter. I threw in another Homicide character here, as the lot attendant. It's not a big role, but I figured he needed a name, and no reason not to pay tribute to such an awesome character, especially one whose time was cut so short on NBC. And this is a pretty short chapter (sorry :( ). I'm going to Rhode Island for a few days, and I'm leaving tomorrow. I emailed myself the story as an rtf and doc, so, ideally, I should still be able to upload chaps during that time, but it's likely that there will still be at least one day in there that I don't get a chance to update. Sorry about that. Well, enjoy this chapter :)

Harper

* * *

**Chapter 16- Lots**

This Denali drive, Nick was at the wheel.

Greg had insisted, not just because the local rock station had a special on Pantera, but because he had no idea where they were going. But leaving Nick at the wheel would at least ensure they were going somewhere, and that, given Nick's unofficial status as primary on the case, that that somewhere was the right somewhere.

Nick drove more slowly than usual.

He knew where they needed to go next. It was the only remaining source of evidence directly related to Warrick's murder, and the place they had to go if they had any hope of making a valid case in their confrontation of the newly discovered mole.

* * *

He turned into the lot. A short, rotund man in a trucker's cap and loose plaid shirt meandered over, coming to assess who it was that was entering the lot. Though it looked like a police-owned vehicle, he had to be sure.

Though he looked sloppy and unkempt, Steve Crosetti, lot operator, was conscientious in his job. He was just a small-town guy trying to make it in the big lonely world, he would often say, making himself feel like a forlorn character out of a Journey song. But perhaps that really was his role. A gentle giant, he kept things running in the lot.

Satisfied at the flash of LVPD badges, he allowed the Denali to pass.

Nick yelled out the window at the lot operator, asking where he could find a car belonging to a Warrick Brown. Crosetti, not realizing the violation of LVPD protocol taking place, obliged, and ran through the database to find the car. He led the way.

And at long last, Nick Stokes saw the scene of his best friend's death. He lost his stomach at first glance.

The car was practically clean.

Greg looked down curiously at the car. The glass fragments were obvious, in the car. The ones they'd found on the street in the alley had been among the few that traveled outward, rather than into the car, but that could be easily explained with physics, he suspected. He felt fortunate to have found the few glass fragments that had made it out of the car and onto the alley, let alone that those same fragments had somehow ended up baring not just the fingerprints but also the DNA of the suspect. He felt less fortunate that that suspect was the undersheriff.

Greg had seen the man's temper before. He remembered the backlash over the Demetrius James incident, and suspected that the undersheriff had been under a great deal of pressure regarding the case. That had not, to Greg, however, excused the man's behavior on blasting Greg – essentially telling him it would have been preferable had Greg not survived the beating at all – after James's brother was involved in two other murders. _Hardly surprising_, he thought of he latter fact.

Looking more closely at the evidence before him, Nick wrinkled his brow. It was beyond curious that the blood splatter was relatively minimal. _Not enough to have bled out here. _It surprised him that this was even enough blood to come from a murder.

It was hardly more than he had found at the last attempted mugging, where the almost-victim – who turned out to be a former lightweight wrestling champ – had exchanged a few blows with the perp before calling the cops.

The vic had learned restraint as well as power in his years of martial arts training, and the perp wound up with a bloody nose that wasn't even broken. The fight had been lost with an arm twisted behind the back, as well as a knee to the groin, neither of which had drawn blood.

And yet that case produced only slightly less blood than this one. _Curious. It's almost like he must have been moved while he was bleeding out._ The thought made Nick cringe. _The bastards didn't even help him while he was bleeding out. They just moved him and watched him die. _He hated the undersheriff more and more with every passing minute.

Sensing his buddy's growing aggravation, Greg yelled over from the other side of the car, "I think we've got all the evidence we need to get a slamdunk conviction, assuming the evidence comes back to him. That should be enough."

Nick gulped. He was ready. "Okay."

It was then that Greg noticed a gun, sitting innocently on the front passenger side seat. "Nicky. I've got something."

Nick looked up, sensing from Greg's voice that it was something good.

Now, it really was time to leave.

* * *

Racing back to the lab, they were luck to find the techs preoccupied in a meeting. Greg verified DNA hidden beneath the trigger of the gun, which came back to a match to a smudged fingerprint on the barrel. Both came back as matches to their perp.

And both CSI's had no idea what to do with the evidence.

They Xeroxed the evidence and placed it, carefully, in Holly Gribbs' locker. The contents of Warrick's locker were still a mystery.

For Nick, the answer as to what course of action came next quickly became obvious.

Nick stood at the Denali, when he saw familiar footsteps – the ones he had feared – approaching.

He was in his Denali when he saw the undersheriff approach Greg.

* * *

Thanks for reading! Reviews love

:) Harper


	16. 17 Unexpected Meetings

Thanks so much to LostLadyKnight, SawyerFan, Sasukesmyemo, Kimiko-Pedrosa, GregsLabRat and Mma63 for 6 wonderful reviews on the last chapter! They made me very very happy and were a great thing to come back to after a 7 hour train ride :) Thanks as well to the wonderful Racefh for betaing this chapter. Just a warning, there are a few curse words in this chapter, though I don't think they really do anything to offend. (Honestly, I feel like if these curse words were not there, the character uttering them would seem rather OOC.)

Enjoy :)

Harper

* * *

**Chapter 17- Unexpected Meetings**

Catherine sat at the French Palace, having gotten sick of the country bar. This was her true old haunt. She could sit in the back, tipping back tequilas at a discount, seeing as she definitely wasn't interested in the main show – a show she used to be a part of.

While the male clients whooped it up, she could stare at the walls, and the memories they held. Picture after picture of the glory days – or at least, to her, more glorious days of Vegas – adorned the walls. She could even find herself in some of them. Some dated back even to the days of her father's Vegas. At times, especially after his death, she found it comforting to look at Sam Braun in these pictures, back when he was young and less people wanted him dead.

So absorbed was she in the walls of Vegas Old that she didn't notice a familiar face come to join her in the back room. To him, Vegas of Old meant something different. One of Sara Sidle's first, and favorite, cases had been at the French Palace.

The concept of a favorite case, in this world, was curious, but Gil remembered the look on her face when she had solved the murder of a French Palace dancer. It had been one of Sara's first successful cases, and had given her a sense of purpose, self-confidence and efficacy.

It was also a reminder of life before Sara. He hadn't been discontent with his life P.S., or Pre-Sara, as he referred to it. He had been content, and hooked into, his job as a CSI. But, every once in a while, he would journey back to those old places that gave him a sense of history. The French Palace was one of them. Being French, it was also one of the places that served the most unusual foods.

Though he couldn't find roasted crickets – his favorite – , the French Palace made some mean escargot. A fan of bugs, Grissom was very happy eating them. It made him feel like a better part of the circle of life.

And, best of all, toward the back of the restaurant, he had found a curious nest of one of the few insects he could not identify. He puzzled at the miniature ecosystem the many bugs in the walls at the back of the French Palace had established. It was, he thought, a microcosm of how the world should be: peacefully coexisting diversity, with the simple – and necessary – circle of life responsible for the vast majority of carnage. Terrified customers squashing tiny bugs that they somehow found intimidating explained the remainder of the insect casualties, particularly those of the arachnid family.

He could never understand how people found mosquitoes and gnats, and even more bugs, so bothersome and scary yet could manage to hate spiders. They were the killers of the blood world – cold-blooded killers in a truer sense, though somehow he doubted that part. Human murderers behaved in a way that seemed to constitute the connotations of 'cold-blooded' far more justly.

Spiders, on the other hand, ate what they needed to. They killed what they needed to. They kept the population in check, stopping any species from propagating beyond its reaches. In that way, they really performed a service for the insect species that they devoured. Their eating habits guaranteed that there were less of a particular species vying for a specific food source. The food circle was a delicate balance, Grissom thought, and spiders did their part to maintain it.

Far more unnatural, Grissom thought, were the invasive species. Tent caterpillars had long been among the few insects that he would go out of his way to squash when he got the chance, watching the pesky, unnatural tree-killers' lime-green innards slurp out over the pavement. The insects had traveled to the US and, with no natural predator, spread at exponential rates, killing many oak trees and hence disturbing that precious balance of life in the process.

Murderers, like tent caterpillars, were to Grissom unnatural. Humans that murdered other humans, for no apparent scientific purpose like preserving the food circle, violated not only the Bible he had been raised on, but also his code of scientific ethics.

Insect and arachnid society followed an order of conduct, almost to a 't.' They killed only when necessary, for only a set group of reasons, and followed specific life cycles and societal expectations with no complaints or unnecessary violence. It was a utopia that, he knew, humans would never achieve, which was why he had a job.

Studying a sleek cockroach more closely, he noticed a red hair dangling down. He narrowed his eyebrows, beginning to think of the possible ways it could have gotten there, when another red hair fell down before his face. At this, he looked up.

"Hi Gil."

"Catherine! Hi. I didn't realize you shared a fascination for the Smokybrown cockroach."

"I don't."

"Oh."

"I used to work here."

"Yes, I remember you mentioning that."

"I came here to look at old memories."

"Old memories," Grissom nodded wistfully. He stared again at the spot where Sara had found the evidence for her breakthrough case.

"Old memories," Catherine repeated, remembering her reluctance to invite Warrick to the French Palace, opting instead for the ordinary diner because she didn't want to come on too fast. After years of broken relationships, she didn't want to invest quickly in the one man who really always treated her like a lady. She didn't want to tell him how much he meant to her, for fear of losing him, or her precious pride. "I miss him."

"I know how you feel."

The two reflected in silence, before Catherine broke in. "How long _were_ you two dating?"

"Two years."

"Wow."

"Mmm."

"That's about as long as Warrick and Tina were together."

"I'd rather not be compared to that tragic couple."

"Tragic…" Catherine thought sadly. _Warrick Brown will always be tragic._

As if reading her thoughts, Grissom replied, "He's not a tragic fallen hero. He is, and always will be his own hero, and ours. He lived well, Catherine. And he loved well. He loved everyone in his life, and he lived a good life."

"I never got the chance to tell him how much he meant to me."

"I never got the chance to tell Sara how much she meant to me."

"But you two were together. She must have known."

"At least you don't have to mourn him as much… you don't have to mourn the memories –"

"So much as the missed opportunities."

"There's plenty of opportunities left," Grissom replied, doubting his own words.

Catherine laughed bitterly. "Would you say the same for Sara, that there are plenty of other opportunities now that she's gone?"

Grissom thought for a moment, struggling between the need to comfort Catherine and to speak honestly, respecting the love between him and Sara. He finally realized that, given the relationship between him and his astute second-in-command, she would catch him in his lie, if he told it. "No, I wouldn't say the same for Sara."

"As I thought."

Grissom merely nodded, having lost the argument. "You really feel that strongly about Warrick?"

Catherine nodded. "I've felt that strongly about him for a _long_ while. But first I was married to Eddie, and then –"

"_That_ long," Grissom asked, astounded. _Wow, I'm really not so observant with people stuff._

Catherine nodded, surprised at her friend's density, but also proud of her ability to hide that sort of thing. "_That_ long. And then he was with Tina, and all of that fun stuff." She sighed, turning her head, tears forming in her eyes. "How do you get over it, Gil?" she asked, choking up.

"You already have your answer," he replied, motioning to the wall, and insects inside.

Catherine snorted. "I should have known. That's the response I get for asking how _you_ get over it. Typical."

Grissom smiled mirthfully, knowing his old friend spoke the truth. "I think about her. I miss her. I don't deny anything. Even my own feelings. Honesty is always the best policy."

"Is it now?" Catherine chided him, knowing how long it had taken him to acknowledge those very feelings for Sara.

"Now it is."

Catherine nodded again, biting her lip. "Sure."

"How do you get over it?"

"With tequila."

"That may not be the best approach."

"No, it _definitely_ is not," Catherine acknowledged, laughing. Turning serious, she added, "But I don't know what else to do."

"In matters of the heart, there's no easy answer."

Catherine looked up, prepared for a name.

"Gil Grissom."

She smirked.

"There's no use in weeping, though we are condemned to part: There's such a thing as keeping, a remembrance in one's heart." He added, as his pager went off and before she had time to ask, "Charlotte Bronte."

As Grissom looked down at his pager and made a move to go, Catherine added, "We should talk more often."

Grissom nodded, adding sadly, "Partners in heartbreak."

* * *

Nick Stokes saw the undersheriff approach Greg. He heard hushed voices and saw the gun. And he was out of the Denali.

Reacting quickly, he snuck out behind the undersheriff and charged.

Before the undersheriff could react, his hand was behind his back and Nick's gun was digging into his cheek.

"Stokes! What the hell!" yelled the irate man.

"With all due respect, _sir, _don't act surprise," Nick said, pushing the gun further in.

"_With_ all due respect, _Stokes,_ _you_ don't know what you're talking about. Now will you _kindly_ get this gun out of my face. Now." The last sentence was less a request or question than a command. But Nick did not heed the order from his technical superior.

"I want the answers and I want them now. You know this is about Warrick."

"No shit, Sherlock." The undersheriff was taking deep breaths, trying to calm down despite obvious concern, though feigning calm with the cocky answer.

"Why'd you kill Warrick?" Nick asked, his anger growing rapidly.

"I didn't." A dark maroon car pulled up, but Nick didn't care, though he could tell from the undersheriff's eyes – darting wildly and anxiously across the parking lot – that the politician did.

"Wrong answer!" Nick gave the response he had so often heard Brass give.

"I didn't kill him." Nick pushed the gun further into the undersheriff's face. "I _swear_, I really didn't kill him. It was a set-up. Brown was in danger."

"And why should I believe you?"

"Because I have no reason to lie."

"No reason to lie?! No reason to lie?! To cover your own damn ass! That's your pretty good reason to lie! That's what you did when you threw my buddy over here under a bus for saving a civilian!"

"Don't pull me into this," said Greg, quietly yet forcefully. It was his first word spoken during the encounter, and Nick was surprised.

Nick gave Greg a questioning look.

Greg's only response startled Nick more than seeing the undersheriff appear to pull a gun on his friend – with the same hand that had probably killed his former best friend. "I believe him."

"You WHAT?! Why the HELL would you do that?" Turning his head to the undersheriff, he demanded, "Give me one good reason why I should believe you!"

"Because the man in that maroon car has a gun he's about to pull on me – or worse – for telling you this much already. I've been working with the fuckin' feds this whole time! It was a set-up, and I'm not this freakin' mole you keep talking about. For Christ's sake the mole was a lab rat and –"

A deafening bullet broke the undersheriff's final words. Another bullet broke Nick's grasp on him, as a hand from the speeding car drew the wounded politician in and the car sped away – taking with it their most valuable witness.

* * *

Thank for reading (and hopefully reviewing :) )!

Harper


	17. 18 First Casualty

I'm happy to see that you all are still with me on this story. I don't have anything to say at this point (the author's note is at the bottom of the story). And thanks to Sasukesmyemo, Kimiko-Pedrosa and LostLadyKnight for reviews on the last chapter. Enjoy :)

**CHAPTER 18- First Casualty**

"Shit!" Nick instinctually clutched his arm, which had come close to a bullet wound and twisted in the process of the incident with the maroon car. Rubbing it, more out of frustration than pain, he let loose a cussing litany.

Greg, brow knit and lost in his own deluge of thought, just nodded.

From there, the pair made their way back to the lab in relative silence, broken only on occasion by an outburst from Nick.

Both found it difficult to concentrate on their case, leaving it open by the end of the shift, despite possessing a wealth of evidence. Nick didn't dare to touch a door to any of the various tech labs, and nervously suggested Greg do the same.

Greg, however, still determined to maintain some trace of the normal work day – or at least as normal as work as an LVPD CSI ever was – snuck into the labs occasionally, when Nick wasn't looking. Nonetheless, every last lab tech noticed Greg's distant look.

In fact, even the relatively emotionally blind Grissom noticed how off his pair of CSIs was.

"Greg! That Pembleton case is going to trial. I need to talk to you about it."

The Pembleton case had become the code word for Greg's covert trips into Grissom's office to give updates on his and Nick's investigation.

Nick had insisted on keeping the supervisor, and all others, LVPD or not, in the dark on the case, so as not to jeopardize the investigation by accidentally leaking it to a mole. Greg, however, was more concerned with the safety of its investigators.

After an intense argument with Nick on the subject, he had promised not to discuss the case, but continued to keep Grissom briefed on all major developments, in the secrecy of the cold case files yet again.

Greg and Grissom had only begun their dissent toward the cold case files, however, when Elton John interrupted them.

_And someone saved my life tonight sugar bear  
You almost had your hooks in me didnt you dear  
You nearly had me roped and tied  
Altar-bound, hypnotized  
_

Grissom looked down, muttering, "Undersheriff" and preparing to ignore the phone call for the more important business Greg no doubt had to brief him on. His investigators' safety came as a higher priority than the undersheriff's politicking.

He made a move to turn the phone off – he would make the lame excuse that the phone had run out of batteries mid-phone call – when Greg, surprisingly, motioned him urgently to pick it up. Grissom stared quizzically at his employee.

"It has to do with the investigation."

Thinking of all the more potential trouble his CSIs must have gotten into if the undersheriff was now calling him as a result, Grissom shot Greg daggers.

He finally, however, picked up his phone, just as Elton John was about to stop singing and transfer the caller to voicemail.

"Hello?" Grissom asked, obviously annoyed. His face immediately paled.

"Gil Grissom, I presume. I'm calling on an important person's phone. That important person, unfortunately, has messed with matters above his head, and it seems that two of your CSI's are in the process of making the same mistake. Or should I say three. You do remember a Warrick Brown, don't you?"

Grissom's hand shook.

"Anyways, our… um, guest here… or should we say previous guest, as, shall we say, he is unable to come to the phone right now?" The caller laughed. "On… well… close interrogation… " – He laughed again, making Grissom sick – "he revealed to us what exactly two of your investigators were doing – an investigation that the Feds –even – instructed them to stop. Well, consider this your warning from the other side. Because we clean up a lot more… painfully… and less legally, than your Fed friends. As I'm sure Mr. McKeen would be able to testify to… or would _have_ been able to testify to."

As the caller continued, Greg stared intently at his boss, who had said only a terse greeting and then paled progressively, eventually shaking, at whatever was being said to him. Greg could only imagine, and he couldn't decide whether to act surprised when Grissom informed him of what was said.

Grissom looked up, looking like he had seen twenty ghosts – maybe even twenty Madagascar cockroaches squashed. "The undersheriff is dead."

Greg's face too dropped.

Grissom had always assumed a stark level of antagonism between Greg and the undersheriff, at least after the Demetrius James matter, where Greg was humiliated for the world to see.

Someone in the department – someone who Grissom suspected was the undersheriff, desperate to preserve his own political chances – had even leaked photos of Greg, lying in the alleyway beaten and bleeding, to the press, in the hopes of painting LVPD as more the victim. When this and other moves hadn't worked, the county had settled.

Grissom would always remember the look on Greg's face at seeing the pictures – supposed to remain confidential and safely in LVPD files – plastered on the front page of the Las Vegas paper.

To Grissom, it had marked a fundamental violation of privacy, dignity and loyalty for the team. For Greg, Grissom knew, it had meant even more. It was one of the few times he'd seen the young CSI cry.

Grissom tried to guess the emotions running through the young CSI's mind at hearing the news. Yet Grissom would have had no idea at what was in fact going through Greg's mind at that moment.

Realizing how much had left to be done, assuming – safely – that the undersheriff was in fact dead – murdered no less – Grissom pondered who next to call in the department. Before rushing up the stairs to make a move, he quickly got a word with the silent, pensive CSI. "Greg. You've got to stop the investigation." On second thought, remembering a mention of a mole, he added, "Go home. Lock your doors. Be safe. Be absolutely careful. Borrow someone's gun if you have to, but don't talk to anybody, except Nick and I. Tell Nick to do the same."

* * *

Hope you guys liked it! I know, it was a relatively short one, but I thought it necessary because the next chapters can't be combined with it. So, who do you guys think might be the mole at this point?

Oh, and I made up that last extra part about the photo leak. I just thought it established some extra Greg-undersheriff antagonism, and slight angstiness. What do you guys think?

Thanks for reading (and hopefully reviewing)

Harper :)


	18. 19 Return of the Hodgemeister

Hey all. Thanks to LostLadyKnight, SawyerFan, Sasukesmyemo394 and Mma63 for reviews on the last chapter. The mole will be revealed in the chapter after this one, which I'll be posting tomorrow, so **this is your last chance to guess who the mole is**. I've decided I'm gonna name an OC in the next story after whoever guesses the mole correctly. If you want a hint, let me know, either through pm or review :) You can place guesses after reading this chapter (reviews preferred over PMs) as this chapter is a bit of a red herring, if you catch my drift.

Enjoy :)

Harper

* * *

**CHAPTER 18- Return of the Hodgemeister**

Greg retreated up the stairs.

They had gone too far. The death toll was rising, and he and Nick were next. They had gone too far.

Nick was standing in a work room, staring aimlessly into the window as Brass questioned a suspect on the Bayliss case. He would have been in the box, helping Brass with the interrogation, but Brass – with the aptitude for reading people that he had – quickly sensed that Nick would not be of much use, and would be putting as much thought into the interrogation as he was, now, into watching it.

Brass had no need for a hair-brained CSI making LVPD look incompetent in front of the suspect, just as Nick had no need for this case at the moment, other than its usefulness in deflecting time he would otherwise spend having to put more effort toward looking engaged in a case.

Nick barely registered a presence join him outside the interrogation room, until he noticed a note flutter to the ground and a tall, dark figure rush out of the room.

"WHY DIDN'T YOU LISTEN THE FIRST TIME I TOLD YOU, NICKY? STOP INVESTIGATING."

Freaked out, he began running after the character, but was greeted with only the usual hallways of usual people of the LVPD building, and many eyes staring back at him, having witnessed him come dashing down the hall at uncharacteristic pace.

Remembering that he didn't want to look suspicious, and realizing he'd probably lost the stranger, he ground to a halt, just in time to avoid colliding with the also-rushed Greg.

Greg grabbed Nick's arm and led him, urgently, out into the parking lot. As soon as they were out of wave's length from all possible eavesdroppers, Greg announced, quietly but urgently, "The undersheriff is dead."

Nick stared, not surprised at the news, but still highly disturbed.

"Griss said to go home. He said to stop investigating too. 'Go home, lock your door, get your gun and don't talk to anybody' were his instructions."

Nick continued to stare, a million thoughts racing through his mind.

"Just until it dies down? Or something? Or at least so we have time to decompress –and sleep – and plan the next move," Greg added, hoping this would be enough to convince Nick.

"Okay."

"Take separate cars, okay?" The two had taken to sharing rides more regularly than normal, so that they could talk about the case as often as possible.

"Okay."

Greg tossed and turned in his sleep. _Mmm it feels good to be back here finally._ He tried to think of other positive things going on in his life, to distract him from the drama and suspense of the last two weeks.

_At least I didn't have to talk to Hodges today. _From Hodges, Greg's mind switched to Star Wars and Star Trek, and the relative cinematic strengths of each, before coming to the conclusion that, despite Archie's team-oriented (and hopelessly Trekkie) wisdom, he would forever be a Star Wars fan, even if the Hans Solo-Princess Leia thing didn't work perfectly.

Then it dawned on him. Warrick and Catherine. Hans Solo and Princess Leia. Catherine would come to her man's rescue, the true Amazon. But then who was Catherine's father? Sam Braun? Sam Braun didn't make a good Darth Vader. Oh wait, yeah he did. Greg was content. But that means Nick would have to kill him… or Grissom. One of them had to be Luke. Nick, as Warrick's best friend, or Grissom, because he was more like Catherine's brother. This was the only long hard question that Greg wanted to ponder. _Thanks Hodges. Thanks lab techs. LAB TECH AND HODGES!_

Though Greg's train of reasoning was less than perfect, his mind traveled to the same person as Nick.

* * *

Nick deconstructed the case in his mind. To him, Grissom's invitation to take a day off was just a day to ponder the case at home, away from all outside influences – even Greg – and to thus avoid all potential mole in the process.

And he was better off, at that point in time, he thought, not sleeping.

It was in sleep that Nick struggled the most. A part of him, in his dreams, would always refuse to believe that Warrick even was dead. That part of his mind continued to play on the surprisingly small amount of blood found in the car to raise his hopes, only to have them dashed in the morning by the knowledge that the world was still as it was and Warrick was still dead, even if he hadn't seen the body.

Thoughts swirling in his mind, he quickly realized which scene it was that he had been excluding. It was the most painful one, but also the most processed. Nonetheless, he had to go back and investigate it. His stomach, heart, conscience and mind were in agreement on this matter.

Failing to remember anything worthwhile from the case itself, he settled back in on the lab. Many instances of walking down the halls, exchanging ideas and evidence with Catherine, and sometimes Greg. Many instances of walking down the halls and peering through windows, hoping something good was going down. And then peering through one window, that of the enemy, the investigator from IAB. That which only one coworker had entered. _HODGES, WHO IS A LAB TECH!_

The investigating pair met at Nick's house to discuss.

But Hodges wasn't the mole...

* * *

No notes here! But check the author's note at the beginning. Guesses about the mole, anyone?


	19. Mole

And the mole is revealed! First of all, a lot of you guys had really good guesses, including guessing some stuff that will be revealed later in the story. So, on that, props to Sawyer Fan, NicknGrisFan and MariaElric. Thanks to Mrs.VioletStokes, NicknGrisFan, SawyerFan, Maria-Elric, LostLadyKnight and GregsLabrat for placing guesses. Also, I'm sure this will be a point of confusion: the mysterious stranger that occasionally tells Nick to stop the investigation? Not the mole. So, the winner... it's a tie between LostLadyKnight and SawyerFan. SawyerFan made a insightful (and very correct) guess involving the mysterious stranger and LostLadyKnight guessed the mole. So thanks to you guys all for sticking with it! The mole will be revealed by the end of this chapter. Feel free to leave any questions as reviews or PMs. Anyways, thanks for reading! I'm really proud of this chapter, so enjoy :)

Harper

* * *

**Chapter 20: The Mole**

All Nick's dislike of Hodges had come to a boil, leading him to suspect Hodges, now, as the mole.

The way Hodges had dodged questions irritated Nick, and, knowing that the next group they had to look into for moles had to be the lab rats. Hodges was the best place to start. He was cold, calculating, ambitious, opportunistic and manipulative. Nick would rather start with him than with those he actually considered friends, or, in the very least, friendly acquaintances – kind, hardworking people like Mandy, Wendy, Henry, Archie and Bobby D.

Not that the choice had a significant bearing on the case. It was just another person to be paranoid around. And they already had to be paranoid around the entire lab. But it was good to at least feel like, if they didn't have an answer, they at least had a solid hypothesis that didn't make them feel guilty.

The real place to start, though, was the Gedda scene – the scene that had most plagued Nick. While he had never seen Warrick's death scene, he had seen the scene outside Gedda's murder. He had watched his best friend through the window of the police car. He had seen the anguish in his best friend's expression, and he had known there was more bad news to start. Though Warrick's death had been traumatizing – an understatement, actually – Gedda's murder had marked the turning point for the team, when they knew something was really, _really _wrong.

After an uneventful ride over to Nick's house, the two hopped in the Denali without speaking.

* * *

As Nick neared the crime scene, he delivered the news, not expecting a problem, nor foreseeing any reason to have told Greg earlier. They would be heading to the Gedda scene.

Nick was surprised at Greg's resistance. For the most part, Greg had simply taken orders from Nick during the investigation, occasionally pointing out ideas when Nick was at his lowest.

This time, however, it seemed that Greg was the one at a low point.

"I don't see the purpose of going to that scene. It's clearly the most processed already. I mean, we have _how_ many scenes already? Lewes's, Joanna's, the PI's and Warrick's –"

"_And_ Gedda's"

"Nick –"

"Please Greg"

"Please _Nick_. I've been following your orders this whole time. Can't you just give me a chance?"

"Why _are _you so desperate to avoid this scene? This is the one that will tell us who the mole is!"

"They _all_ could tell us who the mole is –"

Nick was startled by what seemed to be Greg's stupidity. "_No_, they _can't_. We _know_ for a _fact_ that this one involved a cop?"

"Do we?" Greg asked, peeved.

Nick was startled by Greg's growing anxiety. "What's up, Greg? Is there something you'd like to share? Are _you_ the mole?" he asked sarcastically.

"N-no," Greg stuttered, looking insulted, as they pulled into the parking lot of the former scene.

"Okay then," Nick laughed, trying to lighten the mood with the last question, but apparently failing. _Apparently he's more insecure than I thought, afraid that I'd really not trust him like that._ "Let's get going. Prove to me you're not the mole and hurry up and get your butt out of the car."

Opening the door, he thought it out some more until it finally dawned on him. _Greg had never been to the scene! That's why he's so antsy about being here now. He saw how freaked out we all were when we went and saw it. He's probably such a wimp that he knows he can't handle it, and is afraid. And with all due respect, it's been a hard few weeks, _he added. _Who needs that kind of stress. I'll just remind him that it's not that bad. After all, it wasn't the scene itself that freaked us all out – it was Warrick. _He turned somber quickly. _And he sure doesn't need to worry about seeing that here anymore anyways. _

"Hey Greg."

"Yeah?" Greg looked up.

"I know why you're stressed out about this scene."

Greg tensed. "You do?"

"You know how stressed we were when we got back from this scene, and you're afraid about reacting the same way."

"Uhh yeah. That's it."

"Okay good."

"Good?"

"Yeah… well, kinda. See the reason we freaked out was…" Tears Nick didn't know he had coming inked into his eyes. "What freaked us out was seein' Warrick." He paused again, clearing the coming sob from his voice. "And you don't really need to worry about that now."

Greg, sensing his friend's sorrow, put a hand over his back. "It's alright Nicky." _And now who's the one freaking out?_

"Thanks Greggo," Nick said tearfully, crying into Greg's worn and torn Stanford sweatshirt. "And thanks for everything. Thanks for always being there, and helpin' me get this case taken care of, and helpin' me find closure."

Greg winced unexpectedly at the last word. Nick looked up surprised.

"Sorry. I just have a hard time with that concept." Seeing his friend searching his face for an explanation, Greg complied. "You see, with Demetrius James, I didn't even know him, ya know? But closure – I still can't get it."

Nodding at Greg's sudden display of emotion, Nick loosened up a bit. "I… I know what you mean. It's hard. It's so hard." He teared up again, but this time made no effort to stall the sobs. "I keep half-expecting to see him at work. It's those little things, like I expect him to be there with food, or beers afterwork, to bet on the game or trade quips 'bout our teams, to hope that we'll be on a case together again, always crossin' fingers like back in school…" He broke down. "And here, I expect him to show up. I expect to see'm in the cop car again, starin' back out at me… lookin' like he did… You got no idea Greg. No idea how he looked here… how sad his eyes were… t' was like 'e was already dead. An' I couldn't do anythin' for 'im…" Nick continued to cry into his friend's shoulder.

"It's alright Nick. It's alright."

"No it's not," sobbed the heartbroken man.

Greg just nodded in agreement. "I know."

As Nick dissolved into tears again, Greg began to gradually nudge him back toward the car.

"Nuh uh," Nick said through tears. "We're not goin' back. No goin' back now. I came here to confront it, and I'm not turning around." He pushed himself out of his friend's supportive embrace.

"You're clearly too emotional to be working this scene."

"No, I'm not." Sensing Greg's obstinacy, Nick finally cleared his throat, pushed back the tears and instructed. "Either work the scene or don't Greg. But I'm going to, and you're not going to stop me." He took out his gun. "If it makes you this unsure, then I'll at least be here armed. I see you got a gun there too. So go ahead and make your decision, cause I've already made mine."

Greg saw there was no use convincing his friend. "Fine," he said anxiously, taking off his sweatshirt. Throwing it into the Denali, he exchanged it for his gun.

"I'll at least start further back, away from the initial scene, since Griss at least already had the opportunity to catch anything obvious there."

Greg's only reply was to gulp more nervously.

Nick didn't even know what course of action his friend would take. He saw Greg constantly looking nervously through the window, and then back at Nick, who was processing a nearby room.

It was at that moment that Nick noticed a piece of fabric stuck to the door handle.

He knew that fabric. It was Stanford red, and perfectly matched a missing piece on the red sweatshirt Greg had just been wearing, and that Nick had just been crying into.

He looked back at Greg, decked out in a green tee-shirt and his CSI vest. He suddenly knew why Greg had been so antsy about this scene, and it was not out of concern for Nick.

"Traitor!"

* * *

Thanks for reading! I'll have more coming up tomorrow which will help explain how it is that Greg managed to be the mole. Reviews love, and if you have any questions, ask them there and I'll get back to you via PM shortly :)

Harper


	20. Mole Exposed

Hey all! I know the last chapter was a bit of a... surprise. I promise more will be explained throughout the story. At this point, I'm just about done with the story. It stands at 60,000 words, and will probably cap out at around 65-70k. I haven't quite finished the ending, but I'll still give you guys a little teaser of what's coming up next. It includes two kidnappings (it was originally going to be just one) and one hostage situation. Anyways, that means 3 main characters. Thanks so much to everyone who's been reviewing! I LOVED all of the reviews on the last chapter, even those of you who hate me for making Greg the mole ;) So props to Maria-Elric05, Mma63, LostLadyKnight, SawyerFan, Sasukesmyemo394, Knadineg, Devil's Almond and PisceanPal23 for 8 wonderful reviews! This is a shorter chap, just so you know, but the next one should be longer.

Enjoy :)

Harper

P.S. I hope I'm not bothering you guys with the rather exorbitant use of emoticons in my author's notes, cause I'm starting to bother me with them. Nonverbal communication can be so weird...

* * *

**CHAPTER 21: Mole Exposed**

Nick ran to the Denali. Greg followed him.

Drawing his gun on Greg, he spoke shakily. "I promised, that whoever did this to my best friend, I'd make sure they were worse off than dead. I'd see to it that they saw the worst possible ending, legally, and you –"

"But I didn't kill him Nicky –" Greg cut him off, his own gun already drawn and now pointing at Nick.

"DON'T call me Nicky, you two-timing son-of-a bitch. And don't you dare even say you didn't kill him. YOU GOT HIM INTO THIS –"

"I can explain!"

"What's to explain?! You're the fuckin' mole we've been talkin' 'bout all along! Can you deny that?

"No, I can't, but -"

"Well then I don't want to hear it. Letting you go back to them, where your loyalties clearly lie, hardly seems like a bad enough ending, like the one that you deserve," Nick declared as he carefully backed into the Denali, pushing his way toward the driver's seat and slamming the door behind him."

Nick turned as he heard a bang, startled at a bullet landing, no doubt, so close.

He saw Greg drop both arms, his gun no longer aimed at Nick as his hands fell to cradle his leg. Greg let out a howl.

"Please… Nicky…" Greg pleaded, tears in his eyes and the pain evident in his face.

"I thought I told you never to call me that," Nick said as he drove off, no longer threatened by Greg's gun in his face.

He heard another shot as he headed off into the distance, breaking the speed limit twice over and barraged by thoughts and emotions at what he had just learned.

He didn't bother to look back.

* * *

Nick Stokes had worked for the Dallas police department for a long time. In that time, he had been the model citizen, never earning as much of a traffic violation, and not just because of the cops' loyalty system.

For his second trip back from the scene of Gedda's murder, he happily zipped down the road, following the limit to the one's digit. He had no reason to speed, and no reason to be scared.

Other evidence, which he knew would come back to Greg, sat beside him. For once, he was not afraid to approach the lab. He knew who the mole was.

He remembered Greg's description of a trend back at Stanford. They called it "sitting duck syndrome." A sitting duck looked calm, peaceful and still. Yet, below the water, below the surface, it was treading furiously to stay afloat.

Nick thought of the piece of a Stanford sweatshirt at the scene. He remembered that particular rip in Greg's sweatshirt, as he had noted one day at Nick's house, as Greg lounged, pondering the case and waiting for Nick to awaken. _Pondering the case. More like pondering more ways to screw it over_, Nick thought, disgusted.

Nick was floating, but under the surface, he was treading water, and fast. Too much info to process. Too many scenes, memories, evidence pondered side-by-side with Greg to break down and analyze.

Nick was an overwhelmed sitting duck.

* * *

Grabbing his leg, Greg screamed after the departing Denali, desperately hoping it would turn around. It was to no avail. He heard another shot, and screamed as it entered his shoulder. _Trust Gedda's thugs to know how to shoot this good – to leave you hanging, alive and in pain – and shoot in the right place so that you stay alive long enough to feel the pain _and_ the fear. _But Greg Sanders knew who the mole was. He had been working for many different teams, including Gedda's, for years, and framing Warrick Brown had been an intelligent move for many reasons. But it still hardly seemed like just desserts.

Growing hazier by the second, he looked around to see the three men nearing. He shuddered, still clutching his leg. He knew he was no match for them. Feeling for his gun, he pondered his only two options: to let them take him away, where he would be subject to unspeakable pain, or to deny them the chance. He stared down at his gun. _How had it all come to this? _ he wondered.

* * *

Thanks so much for reading! Reviews are always appreciated :)

Harper


	21. Aftermath

Hey all,

Here's the new chapter. Thanks to LostLadyKnight, GreggoAddict, Sasukesmyemo, knadineg and Sawyer Fan for reviews!

Not much to say here, but enjoy the chap :)

Harper

* * *

**CHAPTER 22: Aftermath**

Still emotionless and suddenly unafraid to approach the Trace tech, Nick handed the sweatshirt piece to Hodges. "Greg and I are running a test. I know it's Greg's, but it's still urgent. Give me a call back ASAP if it doesn't come back to Greg."

Gaining confidence, he handed off the fingerprints from the doorknob to Mandy, telling her the same thing.

It was refreshing for Nick Stokes to be in the lab without worrying that any person he talked to could be the mole. He knew who the mole was. It was the person he'd been working with – the person who betrayed him. He grimaced. It was simple, and he was safe here, now. It was a second home, and he wanted to feel safe here. So why did he still have that rock sitting in his stomach, telling him otherwise?

Finally, he found his way to Wendy. DNA. The walls of Greg's former home jeered at him. He glared at them. _Traitor_, they called at him. _I'm not the traitor_, he imagined calling back at them. _He was._ Your_ friend was the traitor._ The walls didn't respond this time.

His pager went off. _M. Webster_. He looked over to the fingerprint lab. Mandy smiled with her thumb up, not realizing that her results did not verify a test, but a mole and a grave betrayal within the lab.

It was confirmed: Gregory Hojem Sanders, Level 1 Crime Scene Investigator and former DNA Lab Technician, was Lou Gedda's mole in the LVPD CSI unit.

CSI 3 Nicholas Stokes remained a sitting duck, appearing calm and collected, though torn deep down inside.

* * *

_Grabbing his leg, Greg screamed after the departing Denali, desperately hoping it would turn around. It was to no avail. He heard another shot, and screamed as it entered his shoulder.** Trust Gedda's thugs to know how to shoot this good – to leave you hanging, alive and in pain – and shoot in the right place so that you stay alive long enough to feel the pain and**__** the fear**. But Greg Sanders knew who the mole was. He had been working for many different teams, including Gedda's, for years, and framing Warrick Brown had been an intelligent move for many reasons. But it still hardly seemed like just desserts._

_Growing hazier by the second, he looked around to see the three men nearing. He shuddered, still clutching his leg. He knew he was no match for them. Feeling for his gun, he pondered his only two options: to let them take him away, where he would be subject to unspeakable pain, or to deny them the chance. He stared down at his gun. __**How had it all come to this?** he wondered._

Greg's decision had been made for him when his bleeding hand had lost hold of the gun. _Now it's over_, he had thought.

Gedda's thugs ambled over, looking pleased with themselves as they inspected their catch, rendered immobile by the bullet wounds, as well as the knowledge that he simply had nowhere to run.

The first one laughed a sinister laugh as Greg shivered, knowing what was coming next. _Gedda doesn't – or didn't – take well to moles. _Greg knew his successor would be no different.

One of the thugs grabbed his right arm, twisting it behind his back. Though Greg could take on that move, he knew struggling was useless, as there were still two more thugs behind this one and, still, no place to run. He shivered again at the hopelessness of his situation.

The thug, amused, twisted Greg's arm further up his back, causing the CSI to yelp out in pain.

"Green! Watch it! The boss does the breaking, and only in the room." Greg looked up at the sky, seeing nowhere else to turn, but to hope for death – either that or the pure luck necessary for a certain convenient discovery by Nick.

Another thug grabbed his other arm and he was dragged, back into the building and to a van waiting behind it. He winced every time his bullet-wounded let touched the ground. He'd never quite appreciated how excruciating gunshots were.

The leader of the trio nodded his head at the van, and the other two made ready to throw Greg into the waiting van. Terrified and borderline irrational, he began to struggle fruitlessly, ignoring the fact that it was three against a one with a bullet wound. He kicked out with his good leg, and even with his bad leg, causing himself only more pain, and winning laughter from the man on his right. His struggles finally ended when one thug kneed him painfully. Greg gasped and bent over, but the men – laughing even more now at his predicament and pain – pulled him up straight and tossed him carelessly into the van. He landed on his already-bullet-worn leg, crying out again.

"That's not the worst you'll be getting, Greggy," the head honcho said. He winked at Greg before the thugs joined him in the van. Greg, still panting, groaning and in even more pain, turned his head around, determined not to look further into the taunting faces of any of the men again, staring instead at the side of the van.

Greg was pressed to the floor, his hands immediately pulled tighter, as he felt the rope constraining his already-sore wrists. When the third reached for his legs, he instinctively flinched, but to no avail. The third sat on his legs, while tying his ankles together. A gag came out and Greg turned his head desperately, before realizing that, no matter what, he was better off saying nothing. He felt his voice choked by the putrid smelling rag and finally saw the thugs retreat, shutting the door behind him. One grabbed his hair, yanking his head up to smile menacingly, as if an extra threat was needed, before shoving his face back into the hard floor of the van. Greg just glared back and tried to sleep, knowing there was no escape.

He had no doubt that this would be one of the worst rides of his life.

* * *

Nick wasn't ready to tell the rest of the team about Greg. They would find out soon enough. His mind jumped to the ways they would, in fact, find out, and he grimaced. _Greg got himself into that mess. He'll get himself out._ Greg was the traitor, and Nick was responsible for neither his actions nor his welfare.

Still, Nick hadn't solved the case. Though at least now he had a probable culprit, or, in the very least, he had the mole, he, as a CSI, would at last be getting evidence. He headed over to the first place he could remember Greg dissuading him from investigating – Warrick's house. He had no definitive proof that hadn't disappeared yet, and he needed it. Given that the one thing he had found – the piece of Greg's sweatshirt – was at one of the locations Greg had warned him not to try, he had his hopes up for Warrick's home.

As he began to turn the key, however, he felt the door open from the inside. Someone was in Warrick's house.

* * *

The door turned and opened, Nick drawing out the key at the last minute.

"Hello?" greeted a disheveled looking woman. Her face was tear-stained and her eyes bloodshot, likely from crying. She looked like she had slept in her clothes, which were covered in wrinkles, as well as the remnants of some pizza. Her hair went every which way.

Tina Brown, normally neat and pristine, was a mess.

"Nicky?" she croaked. He had clearly interrupted a crying fit.

Though Tina and Warrick had just recently had a messy divorce – or at least that's what Nick had heard around the water cooler – she was quite nearly the widow. They had divorced only weeks before Warrick's death and, Nick guessed, his dead friend was the reason for her tears.

Nick put his arm around his best friend's almost-widow and let her cry.

* * *

Thanks for reading, and hope y'all enjoyed it :) Reviews are loved and appreciated, and they really do make authors' days. My question for everybody is how much angst do you want? As you might have guessed, there will be many an opportunity for Greggo angst in the near future. How dark do you want it, and how much? There will also be some angsty scenes for two other characters, as discussed in a previous author's note (an additional hostage situation and kidnapping). All opinions are appreciated. Also, all guesses as to future twists and turns are awesome. Leave a guess, and I'll get back to you on whether you're right. A few people have already given correct guesses about later events in the story.

:)

Harper


	22. Widowed and Left Behind

Author's Note: Thanks so much to sasukesmyemo, SawyerFan, Mma63, knadineg and GreggoAddict for wonderful reviews, and especially to LostLadyKnight for an amazing review and PM that made my night. Special thanks to PisceanPal and Racefh for beta, and to GreggoAddict for catching my repeated passage (which, I should add, was entirely my fault, as it happened during uploading and after the chapter had been beta'ed). I'm going to sleep early (foregoing dates and late night updates for getting to bed at 8 o'clock on a Friday night... pathetic, I know), and, as a result, I'm updating this chapter earlier than normal today since I probably, for once, will not be awake and able at midnight to update. And now SawyerFan gets an update safely before 11 ;)

Enjoy!

Harper

* * *

**CHAPTER 23 : The Widow**

Nick looked at Tina, who was still sobbing into his shoulder, just about eroding his shirt sleeve with tears. She looked back at him appreciatively, ready to explain.

"We had our days," Tina sobbed. "But he was still my man… was… he was still Warrick. I still loved him." She croaked back another sob. "But he got… different… in the last few months. He was… so secretive."

"I know this is gonna be hard for you, ma'am –" Nick began.

"Call me Tina," she interrupted, almost surprised and angry, but determined to honor her late ex-husband's memory by respecting and maybe even befriending his best friend.

"Tina," Nick corrected. "What, specifically, had he gotten secretive about?"

That was an easy answer. "Everything."

Nick puzzled to come up with his next question. _Interrogating's not normally so hard._ "Do you remember him mentioning any names?" He asked, searching. "Like perhaps… Gedda…" She registered another blank. "A Greg Sanders perhaps?" This one hit a mark.

"Yeah, yeah. I remember Greg. He was a nice guy. Warrick said he was a funny guy, and a real nice guy…" she continued, slightly startled by the seemingly irrelevant question. "Oh, I remember what he said about Greg," she said, her face lighting up, before recalling why. "You sure you want to know what he said about Greg? I mean, it seems kind of weird, telling you."

Nick, thinking he'd hit the case's turning point, asked her to tell him. He didn't get what he expected, as she opened her mouth, speaking slowly.

She spoke slowly. "He said that he hadn't been able to spend time with you much lately, a lot since he'd gotten married to me," she added with a tone of guilt. Nick kept a steady, blank expression. "But that he was glad that Greg had been there for you. He was real grateful for Greg. Said he'd been a real trooper, and that he was real glad that a nice guy like him had stepped up to the plate and took over well, as a best friend."

Nick was stunned, and even reluctantly guilt stricken, to hear the confession. Even Warrick thought Greg was his best friend. And Warrick had liked him – _at least before Greg killed Warrick. _ Nick no longer wanted to be in the middle of this drama, or friendship triangle, not if it meant sticking him between a probable mole and his probable victim.

"Do… do you think… would you let me look through his things?" _Way to be subtle, dude._

Tina looked at him, not speaking, clearly lost in thought and her own grief. "Um… I'm not sure. The Feds were already here, and then a burglar, tearing the place apart, _changing _it." She emphasized the last two words strangely.

"I- I'm trying to catch his killer."

Her tears slowed down. "I just… I don't want to mess up… what was his… I keep wanting to just leave it… like he left it… like I keep thinking he's coming home… I know we had our rough spots, but… we were gonna make it better. We were. We got the divorce, but… " At this, she really lost it. "We'd had this conversation, the last time I saw him, and we were gonna give it another try." She broke down in tears, this time collapsing into Nick's arms. "You're gonna catch his killer," she choked out hysterically.

"Yes, ma'am. I'm sure as hell gonna try."

"Tryin' aint good enough. People... so many _people_... have already been here." Looking up, she said decisively, "You gotta do better. You gotta promise not to tear it apart, _and _you gotta promise to catch the killer." Taking a deep breath, she asked, "So, you gonna catch him?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Come on in," she said, covering her face and retreating to the sofa. Nick began processing.

* * *

Greg lay miserably, slumped on a chair, clutching his leg and shoulder as best he could with cuffed hands. Though one of the henchmen – Greene, he thought – had bandaged and cleaned the wounds, which fortunately had not hit an artery, the soreness still lingered. _Well, gunshots tend to do that._ He laughed dismissively at himself and his powerless sarcasm. No amount of humor could alleviate his dismal situation.

He laid back in the chair he was tied to and let out a desperate growl of frustration. He yelled at the top of his lungs, at no one in particular, save maybe himself, to let out his anger and fear. As much as his fellow CSIs chided him, noise had always been his way of escaping both the stress and the monotony of life.

He yelled again, and again, and again, letting out frustration, desperation, anger, hostility, resignation, pain and every other emotion he had torn through, and generally hidden, over the course of the last investigation.

He leaned his head back uncomfortably against a less pointed corner of the clearly worn-out chair he was perched on and tied to – one he guessed had been used for similar purposes many times in the past, and would be, if the investigation wasn't successful. _It has to be successful_, he thought.Reaching exhaustion from the yelling and, he guessed, the gunshot wounds, he finally let his cacophonous reverie come to an end and closed his eyes, trying to avoid letting the pointed edges of the chair interrupt his brief relief.

Greg was startled from his dreams by a familiar face looming in the doorway. He knew that that familiar face would be followed by others, others coming to spell out his pain. He threw his head back and rolled his eyes. There was no escaping, and he knew to prepare for the worst.

"Good morning, Mr. Sanders," said the familiar voice.

Greg raised an eyebrow. "Morning already?" he quietly asked, voice laced with a light sarcastic edge. "No beauty sleep here, I guess," he added, barely loud enough for the familiar face to hear.

"No, Greggy. Quite the opposite, actually."

Greg winced at his condescending choice of nicknames. _But I won't let that get to me._

The boss began to move forward, toward the door frame. Greg was not surprised that the task warranted the gang's new boss and late son of Gedda, Louie Jr.

Louie's best friend and top henchman, who had long ago been affectionately – and ironically – dubbed Smalls, led the way and held the door for Louie.

The initially large presence that Smalls cast, reflecting against the doorway, was intended to intimidate Greg, as he knew, but instead he snickered at the larger-than-life shadow.

"Somethin' funny, Mr. Sanders?" Smalls asked. His voice was far more high-pitched than one would expect on such a menacing figure.

"No. Not at all. You?" Greg asked jovially. He had long ago learned to convert his fear into adrenaline, and now it came out as well-rehearsed humor and courtesy.

"I'm sure watchin' you scream is gonna be pretty darn funny," Louie replied darkly.

At this, Greg's good humor went out the door for enough time to elicit even Smalls's notice. His face paled as he prepared for the worst.

* * *

He was stunned to see the place so neat. _Tina_ was his first thought, but then he realized that neatness was more the Feds' style.

He sorted through paper after paper. He opened closets, plowed through drawers – even went through his best friend's underwear drawer.

Yet he wasn't finding anything.

That's when he remembered a conversation, long ago, with Warrick. Warrick was a Vegas man, through and through. And before he became a Vegas man, he had been a Vegas boy. He had lived with grandparents, and in a rough part of town. Though they had locked their money up, safely, in a bank, there were other valuables in the Brown household, and those Warrick had hid where nobody – burglar or crime scene investigator – would expect.

Bedsprings, Warrick had said, were too clichéd and overused. _Back then he still had the mind of a CSI_, Nick thought. Instead, his family had hidden their most valuable possessions in the one place burglars would never bother looking at: the bookshelf.

Logically, he had reasoned, no robber – likely a junkie, illiterate or, in the very least, in too much of a hurry for a novel – would sit down in the middle of a burglary to read. Gedda's thugs would have been no different.

Even the Feds wouldn't have bothered to check the bookshelves.

Fortunately for Nick, and his general interest in pouring through Tina's romance novels and medical guides, and the crime scene investigation guides he had seen all too often, Warrick's book shelf was relatively small. Nonetheless, he had no idea where to begin.

He pored through book after book about the CSI job, but was finding nothing. He knew there would be multiple papers, so it had to be spread apart at least somewhat. It was then that he noticed a smaller book, hidden behind the rest. It didn't fit in the way the other ones did. It wasn't about CSI work or romance or medicine. It was about life.

It was a little book of stories, well-worn. Chicken Soup for the Soul, First Edition. He opened the book. Inscribed was,

_For Warrick, _

_a true friend and so much more – _

_In the words of a master, _

_"Lean on me, when you're not strong,  
And I'll be your friend, I'll help you carry on,  
For it won't be long,  
till I'm gonna need somebody to lean on"_

_I hope you know that I'm always here for you. _

_But when I'm not, at least you've got this book. _

_Love,_

_Catherine_

Nick teared up reading it.

His eyes, however, were not sufficiently teared up to miss the papers flying out of the pages as he turned them to the back cover.

On it was a photo and the name Daniel Pritchard.

He moved to put the book back on the shelf when he noticed notes hidden behind it. They were the same notes he'd found in Holly Gribbs' locker.

* * *

Thanks for reading. Reviews are loved ;)


	23. Murder at the French Palace

This is an exciting chapter! Hope you enjoy it :) Thanks to SawyerFan, LostLadyKnigh, Mma63 and Sasukesmyemo394 for reviews, and to PisceanPal and racefh for beta. And if you review my story, I'll review yours ;) A few people noticed that the alerts didn't appear to be working as fast as usual in the last day or so, and I hope this doesn't continue. Anyways, I'm sorry for the extended wait between updates. I realized that I had promised earlier to review stories for everyone who reviewed mine, as that seems fair, and I'm always looking for new interesting stories. Between writing this story and some other stuff going on in life, I haven't had as much time to read others, so I took the last few days to correct that and R&R a bit more.

Also, I'm hoping that getting the story into a C2 archive will help get it more readers (I know there are a few C2's that I definitely frequent to find the best Sandle, NG, GregOC, humor and general Greg stories, among others). Does anyone have any tips on how to go about doing that? (I'm on staff for one C2, but I don't feel comfortable adding my own story to that because I'm obviously a bit biased, and I feel like that would violate staff/editorial integrity.)

Anyways, hope you enjoy this chapter :)

Harper

* * *

**Chapter 24: The French Palace**

Nick pored over the notes. They detailed the many horrendous crimes Gedda had committed, almost making him feel guilty for leaving Greg to Gedda's thugs. _Almost_. From Warrick's notes, it looked like a man named James Harris had been next in line for leadership within the gang. Looking closely, Nick guessed that one of the thugs had been Harris.

He wasn't sure where to go from here.

He could go try to find Pritchard, and risk getting killed.

He could stop investigating.

He could spend days poring through Warrick's notes again, looking for more clues.

He went back through the notes, at last finding something more useful – or at least more safe. _Daniel Pritchard, crooked cop_. There was a photo attached, with a familiar looking face. Suddenly it dawned on Nick. He'd seen the man at the French Palace, in the third room and at the back of the main room, on his trips to the place with Catherine and to find Catherine on her worse days – the ones that had been coming all too often lately.

It made sense to Nick to start out with Pritchard. He remembered Pritchard being indicated as a mole, with evidence, so at least he'd have something solid to wave in the crooked cop's face as a threat. And, from his experience as a cop, and then a CSI, he had a feeling he'd connect more with Pritchard than with other members of Gedda's gang, who's experience was largely limited to the other side of the law.

Nick headed to the French Palace, not noticing the mysterious stranger again shadowing him.

The first thing Nick noticed when he walked into the rather notorious establishment was a familiar redhead sitting at the back, nowhere near the dancers and staring at the walls, which were covered with reminders of the Palace's old days.

_Catherine_, he thought. He had no intention of letting her see him, as he carefully snuck by her, into Room 3.

It was an open room, where he saw a single man taking long drags out of a cigarette. Nick subtly pulled his gun out of the holster, approaching the man.

"Pritchard," he whispered into the man's ear, gently pushing his gun into the small of the man's back. "Don't move," he ordered as Pritchard responded, startled, to the weapon. "And don't say anything."

Pritchard silently obliged.

"Now we're gonna move back to the back of this room and go shut the door. Okay?"

Pritchard nodded. Nick got out the tape recorder he had brought along, ready to capture every last word.

They made their way to the back, with as little awkwardness as possible in their movements.

"I need you to tell me what you know… about Warrick Brown's murder."

"That's easy. I don't know nothin'"

"Hey now. I've got a gun to your back, so you better 'fess up."

"I'm serious man –"

"Come on, man. Cop to cop. _Everything_ you know about Warrick Brown's murder. I know you're working for Gedda."

The cop grimaced. "What I know is that Gedda didn't order it – and not just 'cuz he was dead. It wasn't a hit by Gedda's gang. Some people are thinkin' Sanders had somethin' to do with it, because he was the one people are sayin' might o' helped hit Gedda, 'specially since he worked with Brown."

"So Gedda's people think Warrick killed Gedda?"

"Well yeah," Pritchard said, as if it were obvious.

"So what's goin' on with Sanders. How longs he been in the gang?"

Pritchard thought. "I dunno. A while."

Nick rolled his eyes. "What's he been doin' for Gedda? What's his role?"

"Well, first of all, I'm not the one who told you this. Sanders 's a dangerous man to be downtalkin' these days. 'S a power struggle goin' on right now in the gang, with Gedda gone 'n all. A bunch o' people are sayin' that Sanders killed Gedda to get power, and a lot o' 'em are sidin' with Sanders 'cause they figure he _will_ be the next ringmaster." At this, Pritchard rolled his eyes. "Bunch o' ninnies."

"Why do you say that?"

"'Cause they're suckin' up to 'im. Plus, what _I_ heard also is 'at Sanders killed Brown. I work for Gedda, an' sometimes I help 'im mess with the PD –" Nick snorted, and Pritchard glared at him. "But I'd never kill another cop. That's just wrong. We all bleed blue, even if there's somethin' else mixed in there too, like Gedda gunk. But it sounds like Sanders killed one o' his own, since that cop was the biggest threat to the gang."

"Warrick wasn't a cop. He was a CSI."

"You really make the distinction. You don't think the detectives you work with are your brothers?"

Nick thought about it, and had to agree. Brass was just as much a team member, and Sofia and Vartann had been as well. _But then again, so was Greg. Greg… Wasn't he a brother in blue. Wasn't he like a brother? Hadn't Nick been good to him all those years? Hadn't Warrick? _

Nick was so lost in thought that he didn't see Pritchard grab his own gun out of a bag. Nick was too late to catch up to him, as he made a run for the door. Pritchard had reached the back of the room, where Catherine sat staring at pictures on the wall, drawing closer to the third door.

Pritchard, realizing he couldn't make it out of the crowded room without detection, grabbed the first person he saw as a hostage: Catherine.

She started at the feeling of the gun to her head, but followed – after years of challenging situations as both a CSI and as Sam Braun's daughter, Catherine Willows was more poised and calm than the average hostage. Seeing he'd lost the startled Nick when he leapt out of the room, Pritchard made a move for the alleyway exit and prepared to dispose of his hostage.

She was pretty, and looked vaguely familiar, and he didn't even really want to hurt her. After all, she was just someone caught in the wrong situation. _Maybe he could just knock her out._ But then he saw her sneak a look at his face, and he realized he had to get rid of her.

He hit her in the head with the gun. Stunned, she fell to the ground. He pulled his latex gloves from his bag, planning to kill her so as to leave as little evidence as possible – thus not with the gun – and to make it look like a crime of passion and thus less like a hostage situation. She was still stunned from the blow, so strangulation would be easy.

Catherine Willows registered the hands on her throat, squeezing. Still reeling from the blow to the head, and unable to reach her gun, she struggled, kicking and flailing, even notching a good one to the perp's crotch. He slapped her in retaliation, but continued to squeeze.

She grew dizzy, but suddenly the squeezing stopped, and Pritchard fell forward, staggering to get away. The mysterious stranger – the same one that had been following Nick around – moved toward Catherine.

The last thing Catherine felt before losing herself to unconsciousness was a gentle kiss.

* * *

Thanks for reading (and hopefully reviewing)

Harper


	24. Guardian Angels

Author's Note: I'm sorry this chapter is sooo short. It's probably the shortest chapter of the story, but I felt it and the next chapter had too many scenes that meant a lot to me (and slight cliffhangers especially) to fit into a single chapter. Hence, what is probably the shortest chapter of the story. Thanks to LostLadyKnight, GreggoAddict, SuzSeb, Devil's Almond, Sawyer Fan and knadineg for reviews, and to PisceanPal and racefh for beta. One scene in here is dedicated to the wonderful LostLadyKnight, and she knows why :)

Enjoy

Harper

* * *

**Chapter 25: Guardian Angels**

Grissom, coming back from a case to the French Palace, had heard the commotion and seen the perp take Catherine. Without a gun, though, he was once again powerless. The two disappeared quickly from sight, at which point he crashed into a bar staffer trying to keep up with them.

Finally figuring out which part of the alley they would have ended up in, he rushed, hating himself for almost certainly coming too late.

Yet he was not even relieved when he saw Pritchard and Catherine lying motionless in the alley, already ready to fear the worst. He rushed over to Catherine first, not even caring if Pritchard was conscious and could pop up and shoot him.

Catherine had a pulse, and strangulation marks around her neck, but she looked like she was going to be alright. Pritchard, on the other hand, was bleeding out. Grissom grabbed his phone to call for an ambulance.

Finally, he had been able to get there in time for a member of his team. This time, he wasn't powerless, and Catherine, at least, would be alright. The efficacy felt good.

* * *

Nick rushed out too, looking first to Catherine and Grissom, hands interlocked as Grissom tried to comfort his unconscious colleague. Nick glanced to Catherine's side, but, still moving on adrenaline, searched the immediate horizon for Pritchard. He made out a figure lying down, barely visible, on the other side of the alley. He immediately moved to Pritchard, trying to stop the bleeding so he could get in his last question.

"You said you didn't know why Gedda would have had killed," he whispered in Pritchard's ear, so that Grissom and Catherine couldn't hear. "_If_ Gedda did, why would it have been? And I need you to be completely honest with me now. You are dyin', so it's not like anybody from the gang is gonna come after you. But _I_ can make your dyin' experience mighty more unpleasant."

It took all of Pritchard's energy to seat Nick with a glare.

"Glare all you want, just as long as you tell me the truth."

"Gedda felt threatened," Pritchard whispered back, losing strength rapidly. "The Feds were investigatin', or at least that's what we thought. Warrick was the biggest threat that we could see. An' Gedda knew there was a mole for the Feds in the lab."

_Huh, _Nick thought._ I hadn't heard about that. _

"He assumed Warrick was the mole in the lab and was in the process of bringing him down. It's just that he never gave the orders, not to my knowledge, an' I woulda known, since it was a LVPD thing, ya know?"

Nick chose not to respond, not willing to think about or accept to understand anything related to the rationale for his best friend's murder. "What about the PI, the one Warrick hired to investigate Gedda recently, Lenny?"

Pritchard took a breath before confessing, quietly, "I killed him."

"Where's your hide-out?" Nick asked, struggling for other potentially useful questions and pushing Pritchard to say more.

"Warehouse… the one Gedda's uncle used to own."

He saw Pritchard take in his last breaths and realized his chance was over. He was relieved to know that, in the dark of the alley, Cath and Griss had not noticed him or his conversation. They were distant enough from him and appeared too lost in conversation to notice the dying man near them, let alone his deathbed confession. Looking more closely at the man, he noticed a note pinned to his jacket. Nick flipped it up.

_Nicky,_

_Trust your best friend. He deserves it._

* * *

Catherine woke up in the hospital, having dreamed once again about Warrick. She remembered the kiss, and the familiar scent.

And then it dawned on her.

The mysterious stranger was no stranger. She'd know that scent – and that kiss – anywhere.

* * *

Thanks so much for reading. Reviews are loved!

Harper


	25. Chchchanges

You are ALMOST there. And I really mean almost. Despite what the chapter title may say, this is not the chapter where all is revealed. But the next one is. The next two chapters will basically explain everything you wanted to know – the meaning of life! Just kidding. But they will explain everything confusing and previously unrevealed in this story. This chapter does reveal a few things as well, but more clues. It also introduces yet another character named after a Homicide character (Pembleton, Tim Bayliss and Steve Crosetti were the others in this story). Anyways, enjoy! Thanks to racefh and PisceanPal for beta and to GreggoAddict, LostLadyKnight, Maria-Elric05, knadineg, GregsLabRat and SawyerFan for reviews on the last chapter. You guys rock my socks ;)

Harper

* * *

**CHAPTER 26: Ch-ch-changes**

Nick was confused, to say the least.

Something was up. Someone had been following Nick. Someone else had saved Catherine and killed Pritchard. And, now, he had no idea what Greg's actual role was. But, many steps along the way, the Feds kept being mentioned.

Nick knew where the Vegas branch of the Feds was. He had to get the whole story.

* * *

Grissom was concerned, heartbroken, frustrated and miserable. He felt powerless and out of the loop. Nobody on his team told him anything anymore.

Nick Stokes had been acting suspiciously different, going from highly paranoid to surprisingly at ease, even careless, yet remaining moody.

Catherine Willows was heartbroken, but at least Gil had spoken to her. Nonetheless, her head was no longer in her work anymore, and the same was true for Nick.

Meanwhile, Greg Sanders, the only team member he could count on to stay focused on work, had suddenly decided to stop showing up for work, which disturbed Grissom most, especially after Sara's kidnapping and then Warrick's death. It disturbed him even more given Greg and Nick's investigation of Warrick's death, despite clear danger and even orders from the Feds.

And now, he had gotten a call from the Feds demanding to know where Greg was. Grissom had no idea where Greg was, nor did he have any idea why the Feds wanted to know.

Grissom was frustrated. This was supposed to be his year to decompress from the anxiety and angst of Sara's kidnapping and departure. And instead he was dealing with team issues on all fronts – problems with every member of his team _and_ the Federal government.

This was shaping up to be a miserable year. And he hadn't even found out yet where the youngest member of his team in fact was, or the ordeal he was going through at that very moment.

* * *

Louie took out a knife. Greg just stared, motionless and empathic. He could take a knife. He could handle pain, and he would, because he knew what was on the line.

"Give us the information. Now. You know what we need to know."

Greg remained silent, and the knife slid down his chest, ripping what was left of his shirt. Blood seeped through it quickly, but he refused to look down.

"Too afraid to see your own blood?"

Greg stayed silent.

Louie, quickly growing furious, turned to Smalls angrily. "Give me something better! And some_one_ too!"

* * *

Catherine Willows, lying gently on the hospital bed, awoke with a new enthusiasm for life. When she opened her eyes, she would look around for some sign of the man she knew had saved her life.

Imagining seeing what looked to be male shoes on the ground next to her bed, she smiled – but smile was an understatement. Just imagining those shoes, Catherine was euphoric as her mind connected the dots that led a trail of thoughts to her one and only.

He would explain whatever reason it was that he had been gone all this time. He would explain that he had never actually died. Maybe, he would instead explain that they were in Heaven, together at last, though Catherine quickly corrected that thinking, dreading the idea of Lindsay attending her funeral. So, instead, it was her and Warrick, alive and together. Here in the hospital. He was her savior in the alley.

Warrick was alive, and he was waiting for her to wake up.

Unwilling to wait, she opened her eyes and did indeed look down. Her imagination had correctly placed the shoes at a 150 degree angle from her bed.

But they were Grissom's shoes.

Catherine narrowed her brows and let out a quiet sob. _It couldn't all have been a dream. That was Warrick's kiss! _

* * *

"Maddy?" Nick had gotten the phone number for the tough Federal investigator from Grissom, when they'd worked the case with her doomed key witness.

"Hello?"

"Hi, ma'am. My name is Nick Stokes. We worked a case together earlier this year. I'm with Grissom's team."

"Nick, of course. Yes, I remember you. What can I do for you, hon?"

"I'm looking to speak to whoever in the FBI is investigating Lou Gedda. I have some very important information I'd like to share with them."

"Hmm. Okay. I'll take a look. I'm pretty sure, if I heard correctly at the water cooler, that that case is getting close to cracked. I believe Kay Howard is working that case. I'll transfer you to her line." Papers shuffled on the other end of the line for a minute or two, while Nick prepared what he was going to say. Nick wasn't as much of a telephone person, so he intended to arrange a meeting instead, as long as it was soon.

"Howard," said a female voice with a distinctive east-coast accent on the other line.

"Hi ma'am. My name is Nick Stokes. I have some information on the Gedda investigation and would very much like to meet with you."

"Stokes… yeah, you're the one who won't rest on investigatin' the case. I really do need to talk to you about that. And, by the way, have you seen Greg Sanders? We really need to speak with him as well."

Nick chuckled bitterly. "That's somewhat what I need to speak to you about."

"Fine, we can arrange a meeting."

"Sure, it's got to be urgent."

"Very well. How about 5?"

"Sure thing."

"You know how to get there?"

"I know where the Fed building is."

"Good. We're in suite 213."

"Okay. Sounds good."

"Now that we've got that straightened out, would you mind telling me exactly where Greg Sanders is? I really do need to speak with him."

"Well, I'd say you'll have to check with Gedda about that. I guess you could say he's getting his just desserts for playin' mole for Gedda."

"What?!" The voice on the other end sounded very alarmed. "Mr. Stokes, I suggest you get the whole story before you make statements about that."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"This doesn't leave the room, or phone I guess, but Greg Sanders isn't just a mole for Gedda. He's a mole for _us_."

* * *

Grissom sat in the hospital room, watching Catherine's heart monitor, and her chest rise and fall. He could not deny how comforting it was, the way it went up and down, so consistently without fail.

It was a beautiful monotony, accompanied by the knowledge that he could in fact save a member of his team.

A telephone call interrupted his calm and comfort. _Goodbye peace and rest,_ he thought.

"Grissom."

"Hi, Mr. Grissom. My name is Kay Howard. I spoke previously to your undersheriff. Since then, he said he spoke to you. Since my last conversation, we have learned that he was brutally murdered, that our key mole with Gedda is likely being killed and tortured right now, and that Nick Stokes has either not heeded our order to stop investigating Warrick Brown's case, or," she slowed down. "That he was never told to do so."

"I told him to stop."

"And did he?"

"No." She scoffed.

"I'm meeting Nick Stokes at five today. I suggest you and Ms. Willows join me."

"Well Catherine's –"

"Oh, yes of course. I forgot to mention another misfortune that's occurred since your conversation with the undersheriff. According to my sources, Catherine Willows is now healthy and ready to leave the hospital."

Grissom was slightly astounded at the far reach of the Fed on the phone.

"Furthermore, given Ms. Willows recent… ah… activities of less than healthy consequences" – _getting drunk – _" I think it will be very much to the benefit of her well-being for her to attend."

Grissom remained silent, thinking, and trying to calculate how best to preserve what was left of his team.

"Trust me, Mr. Grissom. This meeting will help Ms. Willows reach much greater… shall we say, peace of mind?"

Grissom nodded, though knowing it was unseen on the other line. "Okay. We'll be there."

"Five o'clock. Don't be late."

"We won't, assuming we can get discharge papers in time," he said, as he glanced over his colleague, who, according to the monitors, was not in fact asleep, despite her closed eyes.

"I'll take care of the discharge papers."

Grissom raised his eyes.

As if seeing his look of incredulity, Howard continued. "We _do_ have excellent sources at the hospital, and elsewhere, as I believe it has already been shown. Ms. Willows is awake, I presume?"

"Eyes closed, but it looks so," Grissom conceded, noting Catherine's breathing pattern.

"Then five o'clock it is."

* * *

Thanks for reading! Hope that explains something (or at least creates even more questions ;) ) The little purple button beckons (hopefully)!


	26. Answers

So, I finally have some answers, as you can probably tell from the chapter title. First of all, I would like to congratulate everyone who guessed one of the answers revealed at the end of this chapter. So kudos to everyone who figured it out. I have some very smart reviewers, I see ;) Thanks to racefh and PisceanPal for beta, and to LostLadyKnight for catching the error in the last chapter (misspelling Lindsey's name) and to LostLadyKnight, SawyerFan, Devil's Almond, Sasukesmyemo and Greg'sLabrat for reviews on the last chapter.

Enjoy!

Harper

* * *

**CHAPTER 27- Answers**

Catherine Willows was ambivalent. She was ambivalent about life, death and Warrick, the things, other than Lindsey, that were most important to her.

She groggily let Grissom lead her out of the hospital.

"Where are we going, Gil?" she rasped.

He couldn't tell if her voice sounded that way from being strangled or from crying. Knowing Catherine, he suspected that her own grief was a greater enemy than Pritchard or any other mysterious figure darting out of the French Palace could ever be. But then again, he didn't know who the other figure darting out of the French Palace that night had in fact been, or how closely they tied in to Catherine's sorrows.

Catherine, Grissom and Nick arrived at virtually the same time. A woman with a wild mane of long curly auburn hair quickly opened the door to a conference room for them, even though it was only quarter to five.

"Have a seat," she commanded quietly but sternly as the last of the group entered the room.

"Ms. Howard, I presume?"

"Sergeant Howard," she responded gruffly. "Mr. Stokes, Ms. Willows" she said, nodding to Nick and Catherine. "And Mr. Grissom."

"Nice to meet you in person," Grissom responded.

She ignored the formality. "I wish I could say the same. These are significantly less than preferable conditions, especially seeing as your team has significantly jeopardized our case against Lou Gedda, one that includes a long list of virtually every type of felony, and some of the most gruesome. Including," she added, pointing a hard stare at Nick, "the late Las Vegas undersheriff, and, if we don't fix it soon, FBI agent and CSI Greg Sanders."

Grissom and Catherine looked shocked at the extra title afforded Greg, while Nick merely continued to glare at the wall, angry with himself for a mistake he couldn't pinpoint.

"I can see that you all didn't know about Greg, as it should be. He did a good job. He wasn't supposed to let anyone know that he was a mole for us."

She began her lengthy explanation.

"Greg was the trifecta of moles. He was hired by the Feds to infiltrate the Las Vegas gang scene, specifically Gedda's gang," she began.

"Then what about working for LVPD?"

"As part of his cover, he joined the LVPD, thinking it would be the perfect cover, along with making him a more valued asset to Gedda, which had the potential to get us more information on Gedda."

"So he was leaking info from _us _to _Gedda_?"

"Very rarely. And trust me, the information he provided Gedda was worth significantly less to Gedda – or whoever replaced him – than the information he provided us was to our investigation. His work on the case was… excellent and should, assuming certain actions have not destroyed this possibility –" She again pointed a glare at Nick. "lead to the total demise of Gedda's gang."

Nick looked down guiltily.

Howard went back to facing Grissom and Catherine. "More importantly, working the Grave Shift schedule for CSI gave him an excuse to generally avoid pulling off actual crimes for the mob. It helped him keep his cover, because he never got involved in the crimes, plus it was very much to his preference, as a man of integrity."

Howard looked down sadly. Nick felt all the more guilty, realizing that Greg had other people in his life whom he clearly mattered more to – people who cared enough about Greg to not only not throw him under the bus – or rather Denali – for Gedda's thugs, but who were genuinely upset by his current predicament.

Howard, sensing Nick's guilt, moved on. "Greg, and all of us, were in the process of discovering everything and publishing it in a report, in order to seek an indictment and destroy the entire mob."

Grissom mouthed, "Wow" to no one in particular.

"You may remember a book he was working on, about the history of the Vegas mob? That was really the report. He had done extensive background research, not only on Gedda, but on mob history in Vegas as a whole, which was, in the end, imperative to our investigation."

Grissom nodded, as it all came together in his mind.

"We were very close to finalizing the report and issuing indictments, but we, and Greg in particular, had to keep certain…" Seeing Nick's guilt, she struggled to word her next statement more gently. "other interested parties from… obstructing our investigation."

Nick stared down more guiltily. _Translation: They had to keep certain vigilante investigators – basically me – from doing anything too stupid or finding out too much first. Now I can see why Greg was never super enthusiastic about the investigation. At least I was right about something though. It wasn't just a conspiracy theory. Or at least that's what it's looking like._

"Basically, he was a triple mole. He worked for us, reporting information about Gedda, but in order to get that information, he had to work for Gedda as a mole in LVPD. He gave very small amounts of information about LVPD to Gedda, but just enough to get by. It's Gedda that convinced him to move into the field, to get closer to Catherine, given your connections."

Seeing Catherine look up, she added, "Not that he ever exploited those connections. He always found excuses to avoid placing you – any of you –" she said, quietly, looking briefly at Nick – "in danger."

She continued: "His precarious position made him a very judicious character. He did his best to keep Nick out of trouble, or in the very least out of danger." She looked at Nick again, this time particularly sadly, as if apologizing for letting him know how much he'd mistreated his friend. "As he really did care about Nick as a friend."

Kay Howard, despite her tough exterior, had had many good friends in her life, and, as hard as it would have been for the CSIs to believe, did empathize with Nick for having accidentally placed his friend in such a position. She had had many intense experiences of similar sorts with her partner back when she was a cop.

She continued, looking Nick in the eye with total sympathy for the first time. "We tried to keep close tabs on your investigation, through Greg."

Nick nodded. "So why were Greg's prints really at Gedda's scene?"

Howard scowled. She had hoped they wouldn't have found out that much. _Apparently Mr. Stokes is as good of an investigator as Greg said. _"As we got closer to busting Gedda, he began to feel more and more threatened. Warrick was the most visible and direct threat to Gedda's operation. Gedda knew there was a mole for the Feds in the lab, but he assumed Greg was on his side." She paused. "Which made Warrick the logical mole in the lab for us." She paused again. "Gedda was in the process of getting Warrick out of the picture."

This time, it was Catherine who scoffed, now at Howard's choice of words. "But he _did_ put Warrick out of the picture," she said, upset.

Howard continued. "Greg set Warrick up for Gedda's murder, not thinking that CSI could find a way to clear Warrick. That was his primary mistake. The plan had been to take Gedda out, while getting Warrick out through the prison system. We were going to extradite him to federal prison, where he would be taken out by us. He would have taken care of him, as a federal witness."

Grissom looked down. _All that work to clear him, and he would've just been safer getting_ _framed. _

Nick, overwhelmed, could only think of one thing to say. "Why didn't Warrick tell us?"

"Warrick wasn't working with us, so I can't confidently surmise all of his motives. But I believe that knew there was a mole in the lab. Because he knew it was someone very close, perhaps even on the team, as well as someone very good as keeping their cover, he didn't say anything." She addressed Nick: "I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't think it was you, but you were close to Greg. He might have had an inkling it was Greg, which made keeping you out of it all the more important."

Nick recognized the logic. He had one last question. "What did the undersheriff have to do with this? We found his prints at Warrick's murder scene. Who killed Warrick?"

Catherine choked back a sob.

"Ms. Willows?"

Catherine inhaled sharply. She suddenly didn't feel ready to hear what the FBI agent had to say, to learn the specifics of Warrick's death. She didn't say anything, but just cried. Grissom, in a rare show of emotion and physical contact, wrapped his arms around her, patting her head and letting it rest on his chest. He felt tears immediately soak his shirt.

"Who killed Warrick?" Nick asked again, growing agitated. Howard could see the fear in his eyes.

"No one killed Mr. Brown."

* * *

I've been waiting to get that last line out forever! Hope you like it, and that you review (nudge nudge). New chap coming tomorrow, most likely. And constructive criticism and suggestions are always appreciated. Do you think there should be more of a specific character, more angst, more of a pairing (and I know of at least one reader who would love some more YoBling), or any suggestions for endings, etc? I've got most of he story already written at this point, at least in terms of scenes crucial to the plot, but definitely have space to add and alter. This is my first fanfic, and I started it mainly as a learning experience, so any feedback, including criticism, is always appreciated.

Thanks,

Harper


	27. Prodigal Son

The author's note is at the bottom today. Please read it though ;) Harper

* * *

**CHAPTER 28- Prodigal Son**

_Nick recognized the logic. He had one last question. "What did the undersheriff have to do with this? We found his prints at Warrick's murder scene. Who killed Warrick?"_

_Catherine choked back a sob. _

_"Ms. Willows?"_

_Catherine inhaled sharply. She suddenly didn't feel ready to hear what the FBI agent had to say, to learn the specifics of Warrick's death. She didn't say anything, but just cried. Grissom, in a rare show of emotion and physical contact, wrapped his arms around her, patting her head and letting it rest on his chest. He felt tears immediately soak his shirt._

_"Who killed Warrick?" Nick asked again, growing agitated. Howard could see the fear in his eyes. _

_"No one killed Mr. Brown."_

"No one killed Mr. Brown, Nicky" a voice rasped out from behind the door.

Catherine looked up startled at the now open door to the right of Howard's desk.

She gasped, tears growing in her eyes. "No! Warrick!" she gasped. "You're – you're –" Catherine Willows was rarely speechless. Only one man made her speechless.

That man stood tall in Kay Howard's office, smiling back at Catherine with turquoise eyes.

* * *

Minutes later, the layout of the room had changed. Grissom was smiling, a look of intensity temporarily lost – though replaced with Grissom's normal one of curiosity. Nick's worries and guilt over Greg were briefly interrupted by a huge trademark Nicky grin.

And Warrick had taken Catherine's place in the chair on the left, Catherine now being curled up in Warrick's lap and unwilling to separate from the love of her life that she had thought was dead.

But Nick's grin faded quickly as he remembered his other best friend, the one who, he realized, had gone to great lengths, even sacrificing his own life, to keep the investigation under control in order to protect Nick. Though he was happy, the guilt quickly overwhelmed him all over again. _I brought back a friend who was never really dead, only to sacrifice the real life of another,_ he thought.

He glanced over to his now-reunited friend, hoping for answers.

Howard, sensing the sentimental moment of the prodigal son had passed, motioned to Warrick. "Warrick. You want to explain the rest now?" she asked with a faint smile.

"Sure," he nodded at her. "Obviously, I wasn't killed." Catherine laughed mirthfully, than maniacally, before simply losing herself to the joy of levity and relief as tears streamed down her face. Warrick looked at her with a grateful smile, equally happy to be reunited. "Cath," he whispered kindly, asking nothing of her as he stroked her her hair gently. She looked up, eyes filled with love.

Though mesmerized by Catherine's blue eyes for the first time it what felt like forever, he pried his eyes from the icy yet warm blue orbs, to turn his head to face Grissom and Nick.

"The undersheriff, despite having been a jerk most of the time, especially with Greg and all that stuff, wasn't the mole, which I guess you figured out by now. Or that Kay, rather, told you by now." Grissom nodded politely at Howard, in gratitude.

She continued for Warrick, who was now whispering to Catherine. "Greg had been ordered to kill Warrick. But logistically, it made a lot more sense for someone else to do it. The undersheriff owed us… how shall we say it… a few favors."

"He was ordered to shoot into the car. We wanted it to seem as accurate as possible, in case a spectator or other mole for Gedda was around, which we thought would seem perfectly probable to Gedda. We figured that Gedda would realize that, whether or not Greg was loyal to Gedda, he still might have reservations about killing a colleague."

"McKeen had better aim, and we trusted him to make it look like a murder without actually killing Warrick."

"He also had the authority sufficient to promptly convince Warrick to get out of the car and get him out of the area, and to totally orchestrate the cover-up, with our help of course."

"We then pretended to "investigate" Warrick's scene very quickly, placing Warrick's very living body in a federal ambulance being driven and staffed by trained FBI agents."

"It was the perfect strategy, and it kept our mole safe. Most importantly, it gave Greg a chance to brief Warrick on the situation beforehand, so he'd be prepared."

Nick, recognizing the missing puzzle piece, inquired. "Then who was the person who was following us?"

Catherine and Grissom looked at him incredulously, but Warrick just smiled knowingly.

* * *

Thanks so much for reading. Special thanks to racefh and PisceanPal for beta, and to LostLadyKnight, SawyerFan, GregsLabRat, Sasukesmyemo394, linsy, GreggoAddict and SuzSeb for reviews. Just a note, I just figured out the whole enabling/disabling anonymous reviews, so anonymous reviews are now enabled on this story, and definitely appreciated. I know, I'm becoming a review whore. What can I say?

I do love reviews very much, as they are a significant part of the reason I started writing this. I love writing and started off on fictionpress, but quickly realized that getting feedback was significantly more difficult on there. The excuse that lets me get away with spending as much of my day on fanfiction as I do is that I'm improving my writing, and reviews really are very useful in doing so. All feedback, especially constructive criticism, is loved very much. Thanks so much for sticking with me, and happy 4th of July (at least to all of you in the states)!

Harper


	28. Lost Son

CHAPTER 29- Lost Son

Last chapter was one of my very favorites. Warrick says thank you to everyone for waiting so long for his return. I didn't really used to be a Yo!Bling shipper, but writing this story has totally converted me (along with reading lostladyknight and bauerfreak's amazing story, Symphony of Change). Anyways, now that Warrick is back, I can promise more YoBling goodness in the future. Also, I haven't forgotten about our last remaining character ;) I got a question about the role of the undersheriff. Basically, the undersheriff knew somewhat about the investigation and was asked/ordered by the FBI to help out with getting Warrick out via the fake death. Thanks to LostLadyKnight, SawyerFan, beeMel, GreggoAddict, GregsLabRat and PisceanPal for reviews and to PisceanPal and racefh for beta. Ooh, and, as requested, Greg will rear his (adorable) head yet again in this chapter.

Enjoy!

Harper

* * *

**CHAPTER 29- Lost Son**

Louie stared at his captive, contemplating how to proceed. Greg Sanders was stubborn, smart and loyal. _I just always thought his loyalties lied with us._ His glare softened. He hated that Sanders had turned on him. But he still had to admit that he respected the CSI's fierce loyalty and willingness to take any amount of pain to stand up for what he believed in. Louie shook off the thought. This was the enemy.

He motioned to Smalls and Greene, who had just joined them at Louie's request. "Cut the ropes and hold him still."

They nodded.

Greg looked up, still glaring. There was a strength in his hard stare. _This is a man who isn't going down without a fight. A big fight,_ Louie thought.

Smalls and Greene walked behind the chair, eventually beyond Greg's vision, though he kept a stare pointed as far behind him as possible. Greg felt the ropes loosen and prepared to make a run for it. He would give it everything he had, because he knew they wouldn't kill him. They needed the information too much.

He had already invested too much brain power, and the pains of major sleep deprivation, into this case, in keeping both the case and Nick safe. As silly as it sounded, he realized, to compare the massive mental effort to the pain he was about to endure, it would be worthwhile for him to tough it out, for the sake of his efforts. He would not tell them anything – not about the case and not about Nick's investigation.

A burning pain interrupted his train of thought. He screamed before he even registered the pain. As boiling water streamed down his hand, and finally off, he whimpered inadvertently, finally giving way to a heart-wrenching scream.

He could see Louie laughing, unnecessarily loudly, as he squirmed desperately and instinctually to escape the water and from Smalls and Greene's strong arms. The arms only pinned him harder against the chair arms.

Panting, he looked up at his tormentors.

"How much did you tell them?" asked a sneering Louie.

Greg panted more, breathing deeply and staring up at the ceiling, trying to distract himself from the pain. He stayed silent.

"I _said_ how much did you tell them?"

Greg took another deep breath and blinked slowly. He gulped and looked up, staring blankly at Smalls, then, across the room, at Louie, who, though glaring at him, still appeared lost in thought.

"Speak!"

Greg was relieved to see that Louie was already losing his temper. "I told them enough," he said quietly. He had every intention of drawing this out as long as possible, if given the chance. Then, if they got enough evidence, he might even be saved. He cursed himself for the last thought, reminding himself not to get his hopes up.

* * *

_"It was the perfect strategy, and it kept our mole safe. Most importantly, it gave Greg a chance to brief Warrick on the situation beforehand, so he'd be prepared." _

_Nick, recognizing the missing puzzle piece, inquired. "Then who was the person who was following us?"_

_Catherine and Grissom looked at him incredulously, but Warrick just smiled knowingly. _

"I swear, there was definitely somebody following us," Nick said forcefully. Grasping for straws to prove his point, he added, " They even knocked me out in the locker room! And it couldn't have been Greg!"

"It wasn't," Warrick said with a knowing smile. "It was me."

"So you were following us around that whole time, and you didn't even tell us?" asked a very shocked Nick.

"I was _trying_ to keep _some people_ in particular under control," he said, sticking Nick with a humored glare.

"Though that part was _not _under Federal orders," Howard chimed in.

"When was _anything_ I was doin' under federal orders, Kay?" Warrick joked with the sergeant.

"Very rarely," she replied, barely amused.

"It would have been a lot harder if we weren't night shift. I don't know how I would have managed sneakin' around without someone in Gedda's gang noticing if it were durin' the day," Warrick added.

A moment of silence passed as Grissom, Nick and Catherine, overwhelmed by the information, took a few minutes to digest.

Grissom finally spoke up. "So what do we do now? What about Greg? He may be your mole first and foremost, but he's still a member of our team." He spoke for all four when he added, "I want him safe."

Howard straightened up. "There's only so much we can do right now. We have to bust Gedda, and getting Greg out could easily jeopardize the investigation. It's been entirely covert and, assuming Greg's holding up, which he's been trained to do, it should be staying that way."

She saw four pairs of sad eyes meet her. "I'm sorry. He was an important member of the FBI as well, especially this investigation. He had a thorough understanding of the mob, was highly intelligent and… well you know the rest. But we can't jeopardize the investigation. Breaking it will mean a whole lot. This is a huge record for murder, assault, kidnapping, rape, every crime in the book that Gedda's gang is down for. And they're among the worst and most gruesome in terms of how they carry it out."

She took a deep breath, seeing that, as good as the explanation was, more was required for a team this distraught, and close. "Greg said," she began slowly. "That this was what he wanted – I mean… If he were in this situation, he said, and signed a form saying as much, that he would place the investigation over his own life." She picked up a form that she had ready, handing it to them.

Catherine drew back another tearful laugh on seeing her now-long-lost colleague – and friend's – recognizable scrawl.

_"I, Greg Sanders, know how important the investigation into Lou Gedda and his gang is. If my safety and the investigation ever come into conflict, as I recognize, especially in light of the separate "investigation" I am "helping" my CSI colleague Nicholas Stokes with, is likely, the investigation will take priority, no matter what it means for my personal welfare."_

This time Nick let out a cry, though it came out more as a wail.

"Greggo," he sobbed. "I'm so sorry Greggo."

* * *

Thanks for reading! Reviews, including constructive criticism to help improve the story, are loved.

: ) Harper


	29. Plan

Author's Note: Unfortunately, this is a significantly slower chapter, but I still felt I had to establish this stuff. Thanks to LostLadyKnight, knadineg, SawyerFan, GregsLabrat, BeeMel, Maria-Elric05 and GreggoAddict for reviews and to Racefh and PisceanPal for beta. Also, in response to a question from beeMel, the story will not end up being 30 chapters. At the moment it will probably end up at 39-40 chapters. Enjoy, and I promise there are more exciting chapters coming up next.

Harper

* * *

**CHAPTER 30: Plan**

The team, minus Greg this time, sat in the FBI building, suite 213, decompressing the information they had just gotten.

"If the case gets solved," Nick ventured. "The-then Gre-Greggo – err, Greg –" Grissom, sensing Nick's trouble, finished his thought. "Once the case is solved, we can go get Greg?"

"Assuming Greg's still alive."

Catherine sniffed, and Nick looked like he'd just lost all faith in life.

Howard, trying to help the team, made a move. "How far are you in the investigation, Mr. Stokes? We noticed there were a few things that you and Mr. Brown were able to find that we hadn't gotten previously."

'_If we solve the case_,' Nick reasoned with himself. '_Then we can help Greggo_.' Forcing himself into productive and slightly enthused mode, he repeated, more to himself than to the team or Howard, "Solve the case. Find Greggo." Slowing down, he repeated, "We _can_ solve the case. And then we'll find Greggo." He nodded his head as he spoke. He was ready to do his best. "I've got the notebooks of yours," he motioned to Warrick.

"We already found and Xeroxed them," Howard responded.

Nick nodded, resigned. "Well I've got the stuff indicatin' Greg and the stuff indicatin' the undersheriff, but I imagine none o' that stuff helps much."

Howard and Warrick shook their heads.

"I talked to Pritchard," Nick counted off.

Howard looked up, with a surprising show of enthusiasm. "Really? We've been trying to track him down for months. What'd he say?"

"Well, he as much as confessed to the P.I.'s murder."

"Did he? Did you get that on tape?"

"Uh… yeah."

"Where's the tape?"

Nick grabbed it out of his pocket, glad that he had gotten into the habit of keeping all evidence related to Warrick's case on him at all times.

He pressed play.

_"I need you to tell me what you know… about Warrick Brown's murder."_

_"That's easy. I don't know nothin'"_

_"Hey now. I've got a gun to your back, so you better 'fess up."_

_"I'm serious man –"_

_"Come on, man. Cop to cop. Everything you know about Warrick Brown's murder. I know you're working for Gedda."_

_"What I know is that Gedda didn't order it – and not just 'cuz he was dead. It wasn't a hit by Gedda's gang. Some people are thinkin' Sanders had somethin' to do with it, because he was the one people are sayin' might o' helped hit Gedda, 'specially since he worked with Brown."_

_"So Gedda' people think Warrick killed Gedda?"_

_"Well yeah," _

_"So what's goin' on with Sanders. How long's he been in the gang?"_

_"I dunno. A while."_

_"What's he been doin' for Gedda? What's his role?"_

_"Well, first of all, I'm not the one who told you this. Sanders 's a dangerous man to be downtalkin' these days. 'S a power struggle goin' on right now in the gang, with Gedda gone 'n all. A bunch o' people are sayin' that Sanders killed Gedda to get power, and a lot o' 'em are sidin' with Sanders 'cause they figure he will be the next ringmaster. Bunch o' ninnies."_

_"Why do you say that?"_

_"'Cause they're suckin' up to 'im. Plus, what I heard also is 'at Sanders killed Brown. I work for Gedda, an' sometimes I help 'im mess with the PD – But I'd never kill another cop. That's just wrong. We all bleed blue, even if there's somethin' else mixed in there too, like Gedda gunk. But it sounds like Sanders killed one o' his own, since that cop was the biggest threat to the gang." _

_"Warrick wasn't a cop. He was a CSI."_

_"You really make the distinction. You don't think the detectives you work with are your brothers?"_

…

_"You said you didn't know why Gedda would have had killed. If Gedda did, why would it have been? And I need you to be completely honest with me now. You are dyin', so it's not like anybody from the gang is gonna come after you. But I can make your dyin' experience mighty more unpleasant. Glare all you want, just as long as you tell me the truth."_

_"Gedda felt threatened. The Feds were investigatin', or at least that's what we thought. Warrick was the biggest threat that we could see. An' Gedda knew there was a mole for the Feds in the lab." _

_"He assumed Warrick was the mole in the lab and was in the process of bringing him down. It's just that he never gave the orders, not to my knowledge, an' I woulda known, since it was a LVPD thing, ya know?"_

_"What about the PI, the one Warrick hired to investigate Gedda recently, Lenny?"_

_"I killed him."_

_"Where's your hide-out?" _

_"Warehouse… the one Gedda's uncle used to own."_

Howard looked up. "You have a confession. And you have a location. We still need the new head honcho of the gang though. We still don't even know who it is. The plan had been for Greg to, ideally, find some way to take over, but that clearly didn't end up happening."

Nick gulped. Sensing the man's growing guilt, which was becoming overwhelming, Howard gave him something to do. "Find me some more evidence. Help us get the name of the new chief, and evidence against him. Once we have that, I think we can make the case and go get Greg."

* * *

Thanks for reading (and hopefully reviewing)!

Harper


	30. Investigating Memories

Author's Note: This chapter, as promised, contains a bit more action. Also, as a second reminder, anonymous reviews are now enabled on this story. A bit more Greggo coming up. Thanks to PisceanPal and Racefh for beta and to GregsLabRat, LostLadyKnight, GreggoAddict, beeMel and Mma63 for reviews on the last chapter.

In response to questions about the nature of Greg and Nick's friendship in this story, this is not a The Love (NG slash pairing) story (not that I have anything against that pairing in other stories). I'd read a few excellent stories emphasizing the strength of Greg and Nick's friendship, and that was what I modeled it here after. In my experience, close friendships can bare some of the vested emotions that are often found in romantic relationships, like the guilt, jealousy and genuine concern I've tried to show in Greg and Nick's friendship. The status of best friends can be an exclusive relationship, and I think that's really the struggle portrayed in this story, as least as far as Nick and Greg are concerned. Nick sees Greg as replacing Warrick as his best friend, which isn't something he's necessarily comfortable with, at least at the beginning of the story. So, basically, yes, they're only friends and will remain so for the duration of this story.

Enjoy!

Harper

* * *

**CHAPTER 31- Investigating Memories**

_Nick gulped. Sensing the man's growing guilt, which was becoming overwhelming, Howard gave him something to do. "Find me some more evidence. Help us get the name of the new chief, and evidence against him. Once we have that, I think we can make the case and go get Greg."_

Throughout the investigation, at every disappointment – of which there were many – Nick would imagine how much more Greg would have to go through because of the particular waste of time. He remembered watching a particular interview that Warrick had done, concerning Lou Gedda, shortly after Jason Lewes was killed and shortly before Candy was killed.

Warrick recalled the scene to his distraught friend. He didn't see why Nick insisted on knowing, but knew that if he didn't tell, Nick could just as well dig up the transcript, maybe even video, from the interview.

So Warrick told him.

_Raykirk had described the scene at Gedda's club to Warrick:_

_"He took us to Moon and LAX and Drai's and then of course, naturally, we ended up at a strip club. And everyone knows the best girls are at Pigalle Boulevard."_

In his mind, Nick could see Michael Raykirk enter Pigalle Boulevard, trailed by a raucous party.

_Lou Gedda motioned to him, friendly and jovial. "Hey, how are you! Get over here! Come on!"_

Nick could see the waitress gracefully making her way to Raykirk, to deliver the check.

_"It couldn't get any better until the check showed up," Raykirk told Warrick._

Nick saw the scene unfolding as Raykick questioned the 10,000 check.

_"Ten grand? The manager said 800 a bottle. We ordered five."_

He heard Gedda's reply, relatively benign then.

_"I hear you don't want to pay what you owe us."_

The subsequent conversation, Warrick told Nick, had quickly turned hostile.

_"No. No, no, no, no. I just think you overcharged us, man."_

_Gedda shook his head. "No."_

_Raykirk stood up, furious. "This place is a rip-off. And your girls? They're beat, overrated, and oversized. Get it?" He ripped the check in half. "I'm not paying."_

_"Let's take a walk," Gedda replied grimly. _

Nick cringed just thinking of what followed.

_Gedda punched Raykirk in the face, sending him flying. Two henchmen lifted a stunned Raykirk up, moving him to the barber's chair sitting, glaring, in Gedda's office. The henchmen happily tie Raykirk's hands behind the chair. _

_Gedda pulled out a razor, sharpening it sinisterly. "I'm gonna give you a minute so you can figure out what you want to do. I'm cutting something. But I'm gonna give you the choice of what it's gonna be."_

_"No," whimpered Raykirk, growing more anxious by the minute._

_"Oh, yeah, yeah. I can slice you here ..." Gedda brought the razor to Raykirk's neck. Raykirk was already close to hyperventilating. "Or I can slice you here ..." Gedda brought the knife down as Raykirk, terrified, looked up with disbelief. Tears grew in Raykirk's eyes._

_Gedda taunted his captive. "Come on, no, no, no. Shh, shh, shh. Shh, shh, shh. Come on, you choose." _

Raykirk, Warrick said, had grown quickly tense just recounting the scene. Nick could understand why. The interrogation had ended with Raykirk's one request of Warrick.

_"I mean, I was never more scared in my life. You know, he was so sweet enough to give me the choice of my throat or my genitals, so I chose the latter ... so I'd live. Then he charged my card and escorted us out to the parking lot. Oh, here's something really cool. I left with a broken nose, some sore wrists, and some really nice bruises underneath my arms. And I just should've given him the ten grand because I paid my plastic surgeon twice that."_

_"And you told Jason about all this?" Warrick asked._

_"Oh, yeah. I mean, he gave this guy Gedda a call right in front of me. Then he cursed him out and he told him he would never take anyone to Pigalle anymore."_

_"Listen," Warrick began, sympathetically. " I'm really sorry about all this. But ... um ... thanks a lot for your time."_

_"Oh, yeah. By the way, if you're gonna prosecute this guy, I'm not a witness. There's a reason that I didn't press charges, if you know what I mean."_

Nick grimaced. If that's what Gedda did to a customer unwilling to pay the full check, then what would he – or rather his successor – do to a traitor, one who had almost – and still could – sell Gedda out to the Feds? He hoped that Gedda's successor was less brutal. He couldn't imagine the pain Greg was going through in the gang's clutches.

* * *

Louie stared down at his passed out captive. Greg's skin was scalded from his right elbow down. Cigarette burns covered his stomach. Louie had thought that, after the CSI's experiences being caught in a lab explosion and later, or so he had heard, tearing up over a burn victim, that heat would be the key. _Maybe I just need more fire, brighter fire. _

He leaned down, smelling the sweat on Greg's forehead. Greg bristled and groaned in his sleep at the close contact.

Louie ducked down carefully, becoming eye to closed eye with his captive. He reached down into his pocket and stealthily took out a lighter. Sticking it in front of Greg's face, he watched for a reaction. Greg frowned in his sleep and turned his head away. Louie stuck it closer, trailing the fire down, always an inch away from the CSI's skin.

Greg sleepily leaned into the flames, almost catching on fire himself in his pursuit for warmth in the cold dingy basement.

Louie sighed. Maybe fire wasn't the best trick.

If it couldn't even wake Greg up, then it probably wasn't what he was looking for. In Louie's extensive experience, there was always a trick or two that worked to push the victim to the brink, push them to betray all information they possessed.

He had already tried what he thought would be his best bet, fire, along with a knife.

Greg Sanders was one tough mole, and Louie – who fashioned himself an expert in getting information out of people – was stumped.

He took the lighter out again and got ready to wake the sleeping captive up.

* * *

Thanks for reading (and hopefully reviewing -nudge nudge-)

Since I'm now done with the actual writing of this story (there will be 10ish more chapters posted on it), I've started on the next one, for which the first chap is now up. It's **"Stress Fractures" **(no longer called"Of Triangles and Full Circles") and will probably be of comparable or longer length. I'd love it if you guys checked it out as well ;)

Harper


	31. Paranoia

**CHAPTER 32- Paranoia**

Nick tossed and turned, imagining the hell that Michael Raykirk went through again and again. In his dreams, Raykirk always looked like Greg. Sometimes, it simply was Greg, sitting there, in the barber's chair, begging for mercy.

A Gedda lookalike held a sharpened blade. Flames poured out of it, and he looked at Greg, smiling. He began to slice, and Greg screamed.

"Nick! Nicky! Please! Help!" Tears poured out, but they were fire also.

The knife destroyed him. It slashed everywhere, and Greg was no more than a mess of slaughtered organs, and blood… so much blood. Even in his dreams, Nick could smell the familiar stench of burnt flesh mixing quickly with rapidly oozing blood. Except this time it was too familiar. In his sleep, Nick pondered the meaning of familiar. _Family…_ Greg was family. He was a best friend, and a member of the CSI team.

"I'm sorry! Greg, I'm sorry," Nick screamed back. But he couldn't move.

Nick woke up in a bolt and grabbed his telephone.

"Smith?"

"So that's the name Witness Protection gave you?"

"Who is this?" Nick knew who he was, and he knew that the person on the other line knew who he was as well. This suspicion was confirmed when he heard the whispering on the other line – for all his stealth, whispering softly was apparently not Warrick's strength. "Sorry babe. I've gotta take it." Nick had little doubt to whom Warrick was whispering. "I think it's Nicky," Warrick added to the person seated next to him in a slightly softer – but still audible – whisper.

"Aw come on man. You know who this is."

There was a pause. Nick could hear the rustling – and a different familiar voice – in the background. "You're gonna need to verify who it is first."

"Nick Stokes! Best- close friend of God-knows-how-many-years? Proud Aggie, partner in crime on _how _many nights out gettin' drunk at that dive off the strip, what's it called, 'Joe's Cantina,' you know the one? The friend who just spent the last two weeks trying to find your killer?!"

"Describe Nick Stokes."

Nick arched his brow, imagining he was still dreaming. _Then what would that make the dream about Greg? Please tell me that's not reality…_

"Describe Nick Stokes, the person you claim to be."

"Well, uh… intelligent, charming Texan gentleman who, to this day, won 64 percent of our bets –"

"Okay, that's good. I really can't imagine anyone else would memorize his betting statistics, let alone yours," Warrick said with a chuckle. Sombering quickly, he explained. "I have to double-check everyone calling, at least for my, um, previous identity. I think I'd recognize your voice anywhere, but it wouldn't necessarily take too much for Gedda's thugs to find someone with a Texan accent and research a bit about you, pretend to be you over the phone."

"Paranoid much," Nick mumbled.

"You have no idea," Warrick said quietly, regretfully, "how necessary paranoia is."

Nick nodded into the phone, remembering his dream. "Yeah. Yeah, I do." His mind flashed to other memories, ones where paranoia would have served him well. Walter Gordon and Nigel Crane popped quickly into mind, along with a dismal memory from his childhood that still shook him to this day. That memory left him thinking of Greg, imagining his betrayed friend going through the same hell, times ten. He shook his head, trying, unsuccessfully, to force the tears away. He could overcome the tears if he really tried. But not the guilt.

"Hey War – err, Smith. I need the phone number for Raykirk."

* * *

The line only rang once. "Raykirk Booking," the voice on the other end quickly responded. "How may I help you?" The voice had a practiced smoothness to it, but there was also a slight tenseness in the last word.

"I'm looking for Michael Raykirk."

"Yes?"

"Is Michael Raykirk available?"

The voice grew tenser. "What would you like help with from Raykirk Booking, sir?"

"I would like to speak to Mr. Raykirk. It's about a private matter."

"Private matter? If you have a complaint about any services, we have appointments available, for meetings, and we can fax over a copy of your previously signed contract in advance."

"Um… That won't be necessary. I really need to speak to Mr. Raykirk about something. I'm with LVPD."

"Uh…" The voice on the phone wavered. "Hold on."

A beep and a shuffle quietly clicked over the phone, and were followed by a surprisingly familiar voice. "Hello, this is Michael Raykirk," answered the voice, this time with great tenseness.

It didn't take Nick long to realize that the original voice that had first answered the phone and the new one claiming to be Michael Raykirk were one and the same.

Warrick's words rung through his ears: _"You have no idea," Warrick said quietly, regretfully. "How necessary paranoia is."_

Nick grimaced, realizing how terrified Raykirk was apt to be, after the incident.

Hoping to ease the man's anxiety, Nick started with the good news. "Well, first of all, I wanted to inform you that Lou Gedda" – he heard the slight gasp on the other end, but continued – "is dead."

Nick contemplated telling him that the FBI and/or LVPD was responsible, as Greg was an agent of both, but he realized the value of Warrick's words for him as well. He should at least verify that the man on the other line was in fact Raykirk.

"We really need you to come down to the station."

"D-d-down?" The voice sounded terrified.

"Please, Mr. Raykirk. This is urgent."

"B-b-but… I – they – they can't know I'm talking to you guys – they can't –"

Realizing quickly that the man's fear would outweigh any amount of logic and pleading, at least of the nature that he could do over the phone before the man's identity was confirmed, Nick interrupted the voice, stating slowly, "Sir, this isn't an option. Now, we can issue a subpoena if you want, but I don't think that's what you want."

"N-n-no, no. That's not what I want."

"That's what I thought. Now would you like a police escort?"

"Police escort?!" The voice sounded startled, even more scared.

"Don't worry. It's not that there's any reason you should need one, especially with Gedda dead now. You just sounded especially nervous, an' I was figurin' it'd make ya feel safer."

The voice seemed to relax. "Okay. Uh-I don't need an escort. Err… actually, yeah, I'll take one. Thanks." Relief was building in the voice. "I'll errr… meet you there in twenty?"

"Sure, that sounds good," Nick said gratefully, as he rattled off the address for Fed office.

Nick stretched his arms above his head, relaxing. He felt better than he had in what felt like forever, but really only constituted the time since Greg had been taken. That time felt like forever, with all the guilt wracking his brain non-stop. He had hardly been able to sleep. But now he was finally getting somewhere.

* * *

Thanks for reading (and reviewing -nudge nudge-)! So, who do you think that person Warrick was talking to in the background was?  
I went with a more investigation-oriented chapter with this one, which I was less sure of. What do you guys think? Should it have had more Greg? More YoBling? More GSR and/or Grissom? (I can change future chapters to include more of any of these).

Thanks to Mma63, LostLadyKnight, Iaveina, SawyerFan, GregsLabRat, Sasukesmyemo394 and PisceanPal23 for reviews on the last chapter, and to PisceanPal23 and Racefh for beta!

I am very sorry to everyone who tried to access this story previously. I took it down soon after it was first posted, because I didn't like that it only had Nick, and tried to fix that, but, ultimately, it seemed best the way it was. Hope you liked it, and I'd love feedback on whether you thought it was fine having the whole chapter focus on Nick and the investigation.

I'm still working on my other story, Stress Fracture, but realized there are two plot lines that could (and maybe should) be divided into two separate stories. I'm still trying to figure out what to do with it overall, so if you could go to my profile and vote in the poll, I'd really appreciate it.

Thanks,

Harper


	32. Old Flames

**CHAPTER 33- Old Flames**

Greg Sanders had not always hated fire.

He had worked with it so often. He had spent a hard-working career training to be a lab technician, one who needed fire on at least a vaguely regular basis, in order to fulfill his responsibilities in testing DNA through various methods.

The lab's explosion had taken him by surprise.

It had shaken him. And it had burnt him. It had burned him and it had burned him out, burned him out of interest in DNA labs and things in close proximity to fire.

For weeks after the explosion, he had struggled to handle things as simple as stovetops and ovens. Candles, with active, visible flames, became off-limits.

Burn victims, after that fateful day, had always gotten to him. It was odd, he thought, how beating victims never registered the same reaction in him. The day that most left him cringing – the night he had been pulled out of his Denali, kicking but not quite screaming, and covered in punches, kicks, fingernails, hatred and brutality – had traumatized him far more than the explosion. Fire left him with a phobia – one he would go as far as to label rational – but it was the body parts – seemingly turned inhuman and demon like, as if operating on their own – that left him with nightmares.

He knew that what really got to him was the humanity of it – or lack there of. In his chemist's mind, the fire was entirely rational. It was a chemical reaction, the incident itself and his reaction to it. A flammable substance had been accidentally placed near a source of heat. The reaction was, logically, fire – in that case, specifically an explosion. Really, had it not been an explosion, _then_ Greg Sanders would have been concerned, because there were rules in the world, rules of science, and those very rules by which he lived and made his career, dictated that such an interaction would produce the reaction that left his back marred by scars. Though it hurt, it was reality. It felt real, and scientifically necessary.

The beating, on the other hand, had defied logic, and science. Greg Sanders, specifically the part that may or may not have spent too much time training under the likes of Gil Grissom, could see some evolutionary rationale for such aggression. Nonetheless, a different part of Greg Sanders – that which he thought of as the fundamentally human, and humane, part, was baffled by it.

Though he had been known around the lab as the latex-loving wacky lab tech surfer boy, Greg Sanders was not without a sense of faith, nor did he conform to many stereotypes of "crazy Cali liberals" and the like. His beloved Papa and Nana Olaf had endowed him not only with allergic reactions to mildew, but also with a traditional Norwegian old-school sweetness and humanity. Sara Sidle and Nick Stokes had both guessed him to be an atheist, but – little did they know – he still attended the little Lutheran church off the strip. Not that Greg even linked religion with morals, but he did feel it gave him a tad more faith, not just in God, but also in life in general – and in people and humanity.

Despite all he had done and seen, especially as a triple mole, and despite all he had been through, he was still a man that believed in the inherent goodness of all people. Despite the cruelty he witnessed on a regular basis, not only at the hands of perps but also at the hands of his "colleagues" in Gedda's gang, he found ways to believe that no person acted solely out of malevolence.

Sara Sidle, his mentor, semi-best friend and longterm crush, had often called him naïve, but Greg liked to think of his attitude not as naiveté but as hope, conviction and faith. He never thought it a weakness – even if it did occasionally have negative consequences – that he thought the best of people. He remembered how Sara had laughed at him when they'd have this conversation. Their job, she had said, made them see the worst in people, and yet Greg still looked for the best. Greg had recognized the paradox, and like a true paradox, to him, though it conceptually defied itself, it nonetheless contained an inherent truth, and one he lived by.

The lab explosion, in all of its science, had nary interacted with that paradox. There was no relationship between the two, as the explosion, though it caused Greg rational pain and fear, had been simple science. The beating, however, had shaken that paradox and, in the process, had shaken – though not destroyed – his belief in humanity as a whole.

He could still remember the malevolence in those hostile masked monsters' eyes. They had no humanity, no essential sympathy. They sought nothing more than his pain and humiliation, and that had scared him to the core. They had touched him in places they never should have, in more ways than one. Their inhumanity had scared him to the core.

His two previous sources of misery, one leaving tangible scars and a logical phobia, and the other nightmares and disillusionment, had converged in his new dilemma. They cruelly picked up on and exploited his fear – fire, and lost all humanity in the process of that and their other, crueler methods. He shivered just thinking of it. Feeling the burns tingle painfully on his excruciatingly dry skin, he thought to himself, _This is my own personal hell. Fire and the devil. _

Some part of him, tucked carefully behind his ears, screamed, that this was a hell he deserved. Many the rational – and rationalizing – parts argued that he had only helped Gedda as much as necessary, and as much as the Feds ordered, and that he had never even killed anyone – which was, in the most direct sense, true. Nonetheless, the contrarian voice _– devil's advocate_, he thought ironically, given the location – insisted that he had still gone along with it and that, in the very least, knowing of Gedda's cruelties should at least have banished his faith long ago, if his faith had really sat with his belief in the goodness of people in general, not just those that directly threatened him, as Louie Jr. did now.

As the argument in his head – that of his devil's advocate arguing in hell with the remaining voices of hope and reason – persisted, he was at last driven, gratefully, to sleep, this time less by the physical exhaustion from such fiery pain as by the emotional pain as he fought battles in his mind, standing up for his course of action.

That night – or day, as he never knew which was which in the dark, windowless room – he dreamed of Lucifer.

He couldn't tell what woke him – the flaming lighter, again, or the smoking, intangible guilt.

* * *

The phone call was surprisingly easy. He simply dialed the number, one he knew oh so well – it had been his own home phone number for quite some time – and waited for an unfortunately familiar voice to answer.

"Brown residence, Tina speaking."

"So you're still using my last name?" It was the first thing that popped to mind. And probably a rather unintelligent thing to say, he quickly realized.

"Warrick?!"

"Hi Tina."

"Warrick, baby, I –"

"No baby's. Please. It's back to where we used to be. Nothing's changed – well, something has, and I'm sorry for the confusion. Nicky told me you were upset –"

"Well, yeah, but—"

"No but's. I'm sorry for the confusion. I really am. And I'm sorry for any pain it may have caused you." _Wonder how it compares to finding out your wife's cheatin' with her friendly doctor boss, _he added sarcastically in his head.

"Well –"

He cut her off before she could add anything else. "But we're still back to the way things were. Same as the pre-nupt and stuff."

He was greeted with silence.

"Just wanted to let you know I'm not dead."

"Well I wish you still were, jackass."

"Thanks, Tina. I really am sorry. Goodbye. Have a nice life."

Hanging up, he rolled over in bed. "That was one of the most bizarre conversations I've ever had in my life."

"Well, it was one of the most bizarre situations I can imagine you getting yourself into."

Chuckling, he nodded.

"So, Mr. Brown… What are you gonna do next?" she asked.

"Why, Ms. Willows," he replied with a grin, as he leaned down to kiss her forehead again. "I do believe I'm currently a free man."

* * *

Thanks for reading. Oh, and once again, the chapter count is changing. It's probably gonna pan out at closer to 50. Thanks to Iaveina, Twiggy, LostLadyKnight, SawyerFan, GregsLabRat, knadineg and MariaElric-05 for reviews on the last chapter and to PisceanPal23 and racefh for beta. Also, I'm still figuring out exactly what I'm doing with the next storie(s) and would really appreciate it if you could go to my profile and vote in the poll. Thanks, and reviews are loved :)

Harper


	33. Can I Get a Witness?

**CHAPTER 34- Can I Get a Witness?**

A nervous face met Nick Stokes at the FBI office. By 19 minutes after the call – Nick had counted – Nick was pacing in the reception area, to both the irritation and bemusement of the receptionist.

The receptionist could have been more irritated, as she sat playing solitaire on the computer, listening to the constant pattering of his feet and his occasional humming of nondescript country songs. He was surprisingly in-tune. Had he been an old, typical out-of-shape middle-aged bureaucrat type, she would have found it very irritating. However, the pacing gave her the chance to stare surreptitiously at the attractive CSI's backside. It was a different way of passing the time, one, she thought, that was arguably better than playing solitaire.

The door creaked open, as nervously as the man entering behind it. The hesitant man took mousy steps, but was greeted quickly by the quick brusque steps of the Texan eager to greet him.

"Mr. Raykirk?" Nick asked eagerly.

The receptionist glared at Nick, trying to maintain a look of both scorn and flirtation. Greeting visitors was her job. Nick was entirely oblivious to her look, and she went back to her game of solitaire.

The mousy man nodded his head lightly, barely lifting it a half-inch.

"N-Nick Stokes-s?"

"Yessir," Nick said confidently. He didn't see the receptionist swoon at his handsome voice.

The mousy man nodded again, and Nick led him toward the office Howard had set aside for him. The papers and folders had already been neatly arranged, and double-checked by Nick countless times over the course of the 20 minutes of waiting time.

Michael Raykirk had been 15 minutes late – 15 minutes spent worrying and hyperventilating incessantly – and Nick had spent those additional 15 minutes rehearsing everything he planned to say to Raykirk, to provoke the most receptive response, as he paced before the receptionist.

"Mr. Raykirk," Nick began a small, mousy step before both had entered the room. "All you need to do is identify the men."

Raykirk nodded timidly again. Nick took out the prepared photos. One out of each set of six was an alleged associate of Gedda's, or at least had been.

Raykirk was intimidated by the mean stares of the men looking back at him from the photos. Finally, after three rounds, he pointed at a face. "That one."

Nick checked his master list of the photos, though he had already basically memorized the faces and identities of Gedda's associates within the photo stack.

He smiled, relieved, at Raykirk. Raykirk had no need to ask and verify that the man was in fact an associate. He'd remember the men's faces for the rest of his life. Nonetheless, he felt compelled to let loose his timid question. "That's someone – someone with Gedda?"

Nick pursed his lips, temporarily forgetting whether he was even allowed to tell the witness. Seeing the scared man's face, he nodded grimly.

"I'd know that man's face anywhere," Raykirk quietly confessed.

Nick nodded, understanding. _I hope Greg will eventually be able to get their faces out of his mind. I hope he won't be haunted by nightmares of them. I hope he'll –_ Nick pushed the thoughts from his mind before they overwhelmed him.

Three sets of photos later, the second man had been identified. Gedda had already been ID'ed in connection to the incident weeks ago.

A sudden thought occurred to Nick. "You went to a plastic surgeon, right?"

Raykirk looked down at his feet and nodded, bashfully.

"Hey, no shame in that. My best buddy did the same thing after he got beat up." _And he'll probably need more now, given what I got him into this time._

Raykirk looked up with a small smile.

"Do you know if your plastic surgeon took before and after pictures?"

Raykirk pursed his lips thoughtfully, before replying. "Yeah, yeah he did." Chuckling, he added, "I guess every plastic surgeon in Vegas does that. Everyone who deals with looks for that matter."

Nick nodded, chuckling also. "Yeah, I remember havin' braces. They'd have before and after photos glarin' down at you all over the room. All those kids' creepy smiles. Always made 'em look sad in the before pictures."

Raykirk chuckled again, this time more confidently. "Yeah, I remember that too."

"So ya think I could get access to those pictures?"

Raykirk looked at him curiously.

"I'd like to compare the lacerations to razor models. You said it was a razor he used, right?"

"Yeah, yeah." Raykirk appeared to be getting lost in unfortunate memories of that razor again.

Nick broke his reverie of misery. "You think you could get those for me?"

"Sure thing."

"If it's possible, we have a phone line right here. You give me the contact info, an' I'll make the call right now. I just need you to verify that it's alright with you over the phone, or so I'll be guessin.'"

"Sure thing. I can also just ask them to fax it over right now over the phone."

"Awesome. That'll be great. There's a line over there," Nick said, motioning to Kay's desk. There should be a number for free look-up info. 'Cause it's the Feds, we get free 411 service, I think. The fax number's on the phone also"

Raykirk nodded, heading into the office. He returned five minutes later with a restrained grin on his face. He didn't need to tell Nick the results, as a fax machine was quickly heard.

Nick looked up at Raykirk gratefully. "Thank you," he said, with quietness to match Raykirk's own. "You have no idea how helpful that was."

Raykirk nodded.

Pitying the man's timidity, Nick added, "Really. That's… the most helpful evidence, or anything I've gotten from a witness or a crime scene, or anything, in just about all of my career here. It _really_ helped. This is a really important case."

Sensing the tears hidden behind Nick's eyes, waiting to come out after Raykirk left, Raykirk responded, uncharacteristically confident, "This case means a lot to you." It was more of a question, and Nick recognized the hardly hidden connotation behind the word 'you.' This case _was_ personal, more so than virtually all he had ever worked. Probably more so, given that it was his fault. He cringed. "Yeah," he nodded, still hiding the tears.

"Good luck," Raykirk said sympathetically, as he walked out the door.

"Thanks."

Nick felt a huge weight lift from his shoulders. _Solid evidence._

He reached for the photos, ready to run them through the Feds' extensive databases – the ones Greg had said originally were the reason the Feds had Warrick's case – and started comparing knife marks. The marks came back to a rare and outdated Swiss Army model. _There can't be too many of those in Vegas,_ he thought. Looking at the photos, which now contained suspects verified by witness identification, he smiled.

He reached for the phone to call Brass about a warrant for Smalls' house.

* * *

Sorry this chapter is another more investigation-oriented one, without any Greggo or YoBling. Hope you enjoy it anyways. It was originally gonna just be called 'Witness,' but after listening to enough Marvin Gaye, it had to change. I didn't get a lot of feedback on the previous chapter. What did you guys think about that one? Too angsty? Not enough Nick and/or investigation?

Thanks to GregsLabRat, SawyerFan, LostLadyKnight and PisceanPal23 for reviews on the last chapter and to PisceanPal23 and Racefh for beta.

:) Harper


	34. Delusions of Friendship

**CHAPTER 35- Delusions of Friendship**

Nick couldn't even identify his emotions, yet he managed to contain them, as he stood behind Brass. They knocked on the door.

"Greg could be in here," Nick whispered, excitedly, to Brass.

Brass looked up, eyebrows gently raised. He hated crushing people's hopes. _Rephrase, _he thought. _I hate crushing _colleagues'_ hopes. Crushing despicable, grimy perps' hopes, on the other hand, can be quite fun. Especially when done with witty one-liners._ Dismissing the thought, he gave Nick a grim nod. "It's a residential. I doubt even our suspect will be here. Knowing how it goes, it'll probably be his _mama_."

Nick frowned, disappointed, but recognizing the truth in Brass's words.

Sure enough, when the door opened, a relatively large woman – large enough to be the mother of such a brute as Smalls_ and_ old enough – opened the door.

"Hi, Mrs. Smalls. We're here about your son," Brass deadpanned.

"Yeah, yeah," she replied, with one of the closest things to a Vegas accent Nick had heard in recent years. "Well join the club. He hangs with little Louie."

Nick noticed a lilt in her voice. She didn't talk quite right. And she didn't look quite right either. At first, he wondered if someone was standing behind her, or elsewhere in the house threatening her. But then he noticed the scattered contents of her house, and the confusion in her face. Looking at the paper record, accompanying the warrant, of the homeowner before him, he noted her history of wandering the streets absentmindedly. _Dementia_, he thought. _That explains her willingness to give us information._

He felt guilty asking her more questions. He knew how vengeful Gedda's type could be. His henchmen would, no doubt, not be happy to find that she had leaked something. But then he thought of Greg.

"Little Louie bein' Louie Gedda?" he asked. "The one that died in the last month?" he clarified.

"No, Louie Jr.," she corrected. "His son."

Nick looked up and nodded. One of the faces identified by Raykirk had been Lou Gedda's son, though he was listed by a different name. "Thank you ma'am."

"Do you have any idea where we might be able to find them?" Brass asked.

"At Gedda's club," she responded, as if surprised that they would need to ask. "Pallie… Pillallie… Pig Alley… somethin' like that."

"Pigalle?" Nick asked.

"Yeah, yeah, that sounds right."

Nick whispered in Brass's ear, "Ya think 'yeah, yeah, that sounds right' will be enough for the warrant?"

Brass whispered back. "I don't think she'd challenge it if we said it was a 'definitely.'"

Nick pursed his lips, surprised. Even Brass was willing to cross the lines here.

"Thank ya, ma'am. We really appreciate it."

"Sure thing," she said sleepily, before slowly moving to close the door.

Nick and Brass headed down the front steps hastily, ready for the warrant.

* * *

Greg woke up, after torrid, hellish dreams of explosions of chemicals and miscellaneous body parts raining down on him in their state of inhumanity. He shirked to the side in his sleep, but it was useless. The pain commenced. It was, in fact, not the lighter that awoke him, nor was it the guilt.

It was a voice. Through his pain-wearied state, he could make out a voice chopping slowly, back and forth, through the fog that was his mind. Like a saw, it continued in sideways motions until it had finally broken through, fully, to his conscious, and he made out the words.

"Greg."

The voice sounded familiar. His brain was light, his head was light… he was light. Perhaps it was an angel. The voice sounded familiar _and_ angelic.

"Greg."

He shook his head, warding the voice away.

"Process the scene now, me later." Where had he heard that before?

He could hear his own words, reflected through a different, angelic voice. He shook his head again, disbelieving. It couldn't be…

But he didn't really want the voice to go away. He wanted her to stay with him. She was his guardian angel, and he couldn't lose her. Not again. "I came here for you, Greg."

He groaned. She couldn't see him this way. He was weak. He had been lying to her all along.

"Sara, it's my fault," he said, in a surprisingly normal voice. "Sara, it's my fault. It's my fault I'm here. I betrayed you all."

"No you didn't."

"But Nick –"

"You did your best to protect him."

Greg looked up at the ghost, questioningly.

"You know I'm right."

Greg merely sighed. All he really wanted was friendship. In Greg's dream world, he, Nick and Warrick would be all best buds, Grissom would approve of the job that he was doing, and Sara… well, Sara would be –

He was interrupted by his thoughts by his beloved ghost. "I can hear what you're thinking, you know."

He nodded, with a small, almost imperceptible, grin.

"You walked a fine line, Greg. You know you did. You knew Nick, you _knew _him. You knew what he would do. You saw quickly there was no stopping him. You saw quickly that he was going to investigate. You made a decision – probably the right one. You told him the one thing you needed to – that if he was going to investigate, you at least wanted to be a part of it. You at least had to keep an eye on him. And you did."

Greg smiled again, this time less imperceptibly. The ghost, noticing the change, smiled back, with the warm grin he always felt so honored to be on the receiving end of. It made him smile more, this time hopefully. "You know, I did try."

"You did," she nodded, confirming.

"And it's not even like I did kill Warrick. I was trying to protect him, for cripes sake. I was at that scene, trying to set him up so they could get him out of there. The prison plan was brilliant. It was!" He remembered how carefully he'd concocted it, thinking he'd left it perfect, so Warrick – so Nick's real best friend – would be alright. He thought he'd been trying to help the team, even when it did mean risking his own life.

He'd set up Warrick, but for Warrick's own good. And he hadn't even had a part in the faux-murder. That was all between Howard and the undersheriff, and of course Warrick.

"Sara," he mumbled, grateful for her presence, even if she was only a pain-induced hallucination telling him what he wanted – or needed – to hear. "What do I do now?"

"What you always do," she said softly. She threw her head softly back, short brown hair gracefully falling on the cramped air behind her, and let loose a light laugh. Sara Sidle, even if she was a ghost, Greg knew, would never be responsible for a girly giggle.

Greg sighed.

She turned her head upright, and looked down, now into his eyes, so that he could look through the clear hollows that were the eyes of a ghost. He shivered. "Greg, I may not be real, but that doesn't make what I'm saying any less true." She smiled, sending another shiver down his back as he fully realized her hallucinatory status. "Remember your own words."

He stared blankly back at her.

She said, mockingly, doing her best to imitate his own voice, "Process the scene now. Me later."

She greeted him with another ghastly grin before retreating into the shadows forever more.

He looked around him, suddenly noticing the evidence of his torture scattered across the room. The source of his pain was tangible and, to his and the real Sara's – maybe even the ghost Sara's – minds, able to be processed.

* * *

Thanks for reading, and thanks to LostLadyKnight, SuzSeb, Mma63, SawyerFan and GregsLabRat for reviews and to PisceanPal23 for beta. Also, I'd LOVE it if, after reviewing this chapter, you checked out the poll on my user page. I'm still figuring out stuff for my next story and am using the poll to get input on it.

To a question from SuzSeb, Greg didn't tell Nick beforehand because he wasn't allowed to tell anything about his work as a mole. When they got to the scene, Nick didn't give him the chance to explain. Also, Greg didn't expect to be caught. Let me know if that doesn't quite answer the question, or if you have any more questions. To SawyerFan, I totally agree. Though I would be more excited if it were Greg. And sorry again for the delay. I'll be trying to update more regularly now, though reviews always speed it up -wink wink-.

:)

Harper


	35. Tangible Evidence

**CHAPTER 36- Tangible Evidence**

Greg moaned, upon waking up again. He couldn't tell how long they'd been gone. It felt like a while. Maybe there was a bomb hooked up to where they were, and they were waiting for it to go off and kill him. He reflexively moved to stretch his arms, but remembered they were still bound behind his back. He groaned again, though quieter, in case they were in fact inside the building, despite the dark under the door.

He could vaguely read the clock on the wall. It _had_ been a while. He wondered if they were even coming back. _Of course they are. They're not done with me yet_, he thought dismally.

He started fiddling with the bonds.

As ridiculous as it sounded, at that moment, boredom was Greg Sanders' chief enemy. Really, it always had been. _Not as much boredom_, he thought_, as restlessness._

He had to do something. Just _something_. At least while he was helping Nick, he always had something to do. He was used to balancing his time between various intense priorities, including satisfying Gedda, the Feds _and_ CSI. He was used to being busy, and wallowing away in pain made him angry. He had to be doing _something_. It was here that his three lives converged, as a CSI, FBI mole and fake mole for Gedda.

His life and, from the whisperings he had heard between frequent meetings with his dear friend unconsciousness, the lives of some important people in his life and, while he was at it, the lives of future potential Gedda victims, were on the line. He had to do something.

So what did Greg Sanders do, he thought. What was it that he did? What was it that he did best?

As he loosened the ropes around his wrist, feeling blood leak out of his irritated skin, he searched his surroundings for evidence.

It was what he knew to do.

Louie, Smalls and Greene could beat him senseless, torture him, do things that he dared not even think of… – he shuddered at the thought – but that they could not make him forget how to do the one thing he would always be able to do without thinking.

Sara Sidle had taught him well.

Bonds untied, he made his way to a table on the other side of the room, and grabbed a pen, paper and napkin.

He began to search the room. He knew that he had had his kit with him at the scene, and hoped that maybe they had kept it.

Finally unearthing it in the back of the room, he was about to process his own crime scene.

In his pain-wearied state, he could imagine Sara Sidle showing him through the motions of the scene.

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Pigalle was teeming with customers, as usual.

The Gedda franchise, Nick thought smiling, would be disappointed. He couldn't contain his smile as he watched Brass hand the nearest available Pigalle employee a search warrant.

The man looked at first shocked but then gestured at a man standing behind the bar. Brass ambled over, flipping out the warrant again, this time with even more glee. The man looked furious. Nick grinned again, staring malevolently at the man. He felt like an elementary-school kid again, taunting the other team with catcalls that they couldn't do anything about. The malevolent grin sufficed for putting his thumbs in his ears and sticking his tongue out.

But this case had brought him down to his base childlike emotions.

The man glared at Brass for a few seconds, before turning his face to Nick and sneering. Nick replied with a taunting, innocent smile and raised an eyebrow. The man turned his nose in aggravation. This was turning into quite gratifying staring contest, thought Nick.

The man motioned begrudgingly to an employee, loudly and obnoxiously explaining the situation. Nick continued to grin.

The man typed something into his phone as he walked away, his expression poorly covering vehement anger and distaste.

Gradually, customers and employees alike began to filter out of the restaurant. Nick noticed that the customers were all holding identical coupons, probably for a free night at Pigalle in the future. _There assuming this place has a future,_ he thought, smirking again. _But still, smart business. And efficient._

He rolled his eyes, realizing that the owners must have printed the coupons out in advance. _More like shady business, not that I didn't already know that._

They began their search.

Nick barreled through rooms, even girls' suitcases. The items he did find were all over the place: old beers, even a rare open bottle of Chardonnay dating back 50 years that looked to have been mid-meal, used and unused condoms, panties, rotten mozzarella cheese that could probably be traced back to the kitchen, handcuffs, bullet casings, an antique – and no longer working – revolver… What he didn't find was a knife.

Finally, as he was walking out through what looked to be a relatively unused hallway, he saw something shiny out of the corner of his eye. Taking a closer look, he spotted the brownish-red undertone of blood on silver. It was a knife, and the right knife.

With the positive identification photos by Raykirk, of Louie Jr., Smalls and the knife, this was enough to narrow down the suspects.

However, they lacked the evidence to bring the perps in, at least without endangering Raykirk.

They were relying almost entirely on the knife. He could identify them as the men who'd taken Greg at Gedda's scene – and he wasn't even sure they were – but they would then just identify him as a trespasser on that property. After all, he hadn't had a warrant then. He sighed.

He knew it would be unfair to Raykirk as well to use his identifications. For all he knew, if he mentioned Raykirk, or gave him away in any way, the thugs could still get out or easily contact another accomplice, endangering the reluctant witness. Nick had promised he would be safe, and he meant to keep that promise, so Raykirk's identifications couldn't be used.

But at least he was closer. Closer to finding Greg.

Depositing the knife with Brass, he smiled at the sinister man once again, wishing he could have an interrogation. He watched the perps walk out of the building.

Smalls, clearly more the brawn than the brain of the operation, made no effort to hide his discontent with the move.

Louie, on the other hand, rumored to be an expert poker player – or so Warrick had said – kept a steady, easy face. Nick, however, saw through it, and he knew Brass – an expert profiler – did the same.

Louie walked to the car with ease, strutting down slowly and calmly, as if he were instead walking down the red carpet, except rather than grinning at paparazzi, he flashed a meaningful look at one of the more well-dressed employees.

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It had been quiet for a while, and Greg was enjoying it. He had cleaned up as much of the scene as he could when he heard a car pulling up. He was surprised he could hear as much from the room. Carefully, he hid the gathered evidence in his kit and stored it in a nook in the wall. By now, it contained DNA off of the lighter and various other items scattered around the room, as well as photos of everything he could find to take pictures of that seemed vaguely useful. He thought to himself, once again, that his beloved team had taught him well.

Light began to beckon at the door and he carefully returned to the chair, preparing himself for the torture to come and barely making out the end of the grunts' conversation:

"I told you to throw them off, goddammit! Take care of him! Now! Before he does anymore to mess with us!"

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Sorry for the delay on this story. I know a lot of you guys were getting used to the daily reviews, and I apologize for not getting those as much. I've gotten a job recently, and that's been taking up time. Also, I just got a new laptop for school (a gorgeous white MacBook) and am still adjusting to new programs. Anyways, thanks so much for sticking with it. PLEASE review! Reviews really make my day. Constructive criticism really is appreciated. I noticed the reviews have been going down the last few chapters and was wondering why. Any feedback is appreciated, whether it's positive or negative, and I'm always looking for ways to improve the story and my writing. Also, another reminder to check out the poll on my user page (after reviewing this chapter, of course XD). Thanks to SawyerFan, GregsLabRat and LostLadyKnight for amazing reviews on the last chapter! Much thanks also to racefh and PisceanPal for beta.

Harper


	36. Trash and Treasure

**CHAPTER 37- One Man's Trash is Another Man's Treasure**

Nick Stokes was desperate, furious, vengeful and entirely incapable of focusing on any task requiring thinking, or sleeping, for that matter.

He looked through the chart that Howard, Grissom and Warrick had helped put together of evidence that needed to be dealt with. Pursing his lips, he noted the garbage truck. Greg had originally processed that.

Nick chuckled to himself. Greg always got the dirty work. Memories assaulted him. "_Dumpster diving is my specialty," Greg remarked humorously, rolling his eyes. He was covered in leftover spaghetti and what looked to be chicken parmesan. _Greg could always find the humor in a situation, Nick thought.

Another more recent image replaced the Italian leftovers.

Greg sorted through the garbage truck, unearthing each new piece of trash like it was an ancient artifact. To Greg, it had been. He had long studied Vegas of the old, for his book _– or at least that's what I thought it was for_, Nick thought. In retrospect, he realized, the ancient artifacts unearthed of past days of Gedda were in fact quite relevant to Greg's job as a Fed on Gedda's trail. For all Nick knew, Greg had recorded his findings in that truck elsewhere for his FBI investigation.

Nonetheless, Nick would have to go through that truck again. It was the task that required the least attention on his part, for he knew, no matter how important the task at hand, the majority of his attention would no doubt be occupied by his overwhelming guilt.

Nick happily made his way to the truck, tucked away safely in FBI custody. Rummaging through paper and plastic of older days, he worked like a zombie, his mind set permanently between the torture he imagined Greg going through and the comforting channel of nothing. Thinking about nothing, and truly zoning out, had never felt so good.

Disgusting vermin and sodden newspapers were nothing in front of him. They registered no reaction, and he turned them over, one after another, again and again, dismissing them like leafs of a book he read through too fast. They meant nothing to him. He was finally free from his thoughts.

His mindlessness was interrupted by vibrant brownish red, which he knew from years to be blood, criss-crossing a familiar logo. The logo at last broke the levees holding back conscious thoughts from his mind. They flooded him as the logo, that of the diner – the one that had, in a way, started this whole misadventure – pierced his eyes. _I didn't even realize it existed back then,_ he thought mirthfully, trying once again – though unsuccessfully – to banish the onslaught of thought, and its accompanying emotions. _Wait,_ he suddenly realized. _It didn't_.

The diner didn't exist back then.

He was so lost in thought that he didn't register the footsteps behind him. This time, they weren't Warrick's.

"Mr. Stokes. Fancy seeing you here," said a gravelly voice behind him.

Nick turned around in shock.

"Wh-what?!" _Shit_, he thought. A gun pointed at his chest. He knew there was no escape now.

The gun moved to his back as his visitor – who looked awfully similar to Greene -- led him away from the garbage truck. The napkin was still in Nick's hand. He crumpled it anxiously, all thoughts of evidence escaping his mind.

He had no idea what to do. He thought of the ways he'd seen victims fighting back, desperately grasping for ideas. There was Greg and his Denali. He remembered Greg's words to Sara, as he'd heard them. Sara had confessed them to him, crying, of her encounter after the beating, how Greg had still been trying to make her proud.

"_I scratched one of them," the bloody mess that was Greg Sanders had rasped out. "And you should check my vest… I think the same guy s-spit on me." He took a deep breath. "One of their cars crashed into the Denali." He fought back a wheeze. I guarantee there's transfer on it." Looking up at Sara, he retained a desperate attempt at composure: "You should process the scene now. Me later."_

Nick didn't even recognize the tears in his eyes as he walked, still effectively lost in the memories that he'd sought to dodge by coming to the garbage truck. Struggling to deal with the situation at hand, he tried to think back to before Greg had become a CSI. _Who was the bravest victim I knew?_ He wondered. Suddenly, it dawned on him. _Gum drops_. Nick's face lit up intensely.

The thug looked at Nick curiously. He laughed, spit flying out of his mouth, grossly, and landing on the contents of the truck, and on the napkin. Nick knew that this thug was known for his brawn, not his brainpower.

As Nick passed his Denali, parked next to a garbage can, he blew his nose on the part of the napkin farthest away from the blood.

Then he punched Greene in the nose.

The thug shrieked – surprisingly high-pitched and girly for someone of such size – and moved to tackle Nick, but not before his blood had landed on the napkin and Nick had tossed it toward the trash bin next to the Denali, careful not to actually let it land in the trash can.

Greene looked at him questioningly, before tackling him.

"I never litter," Nick murmered, before getting punched himself. Greene nodded, clearly amused at the questionable priorities of his captive. _He must think I'm even stupider than he is,_ Nick thought, gaining confidence with his last endeavor.

His chest rose with pride and feelings of efficacy, before getting punched back down by his confused and irritated captor. _At least they can find that, and check for the fingerprints that I know are on there, as well as the spit, blood and snot that's now there,_ he thought as he lost consciousness to the punches.

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Thanks for reading, and please review! Thanks to PisceanPal and Racefh for beta and to LostLadyKnight, SawyerFan, GregsLabRat and Mma63 for reviews!

Harper


	37. Reunion

**CHAPTER 38: REUNION**

Greg could see the body being brought in. It slumped over Greene's shoulder, but not easily – not slung over like a bag of potatoes, as he'd seen so many times. Greene clutched the body awkwardly, struggling to hold it up over his right shoulder, where it leaned too far off. It was too broad.

It was no it, but a he, as Greg saw when he looked into his ex-friend's brown eyes. They had held fear, but, at the moment they met Greg's, they held nothing but relief and, dare Greg guess it, an apology.

Greg's eyes returned a look of pity for the ordeal his friend had just cast himself into, but, nonetheless, his own sort of relief as well. He wouldn't mind a friend in this place, even if he did very much mind that Nick was here.

Perhaps, between the two of them, they'd even stand a better chance of getting something done for their own sakes, along with that of the case.

"Hi friend," Greg said as Greene lugged the very alive body over to Greg's side of the room before dropping it – him – unceremoniously, and with great effort, on the floor.

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The call startled Grissom. It had been too long without sleep, and he growled at nobody in particular, as the caller couldn't hear him, having not picked up the phone yet. But they had interrupted precious dreams of Sara Sidle merged into the strongest dreamless sleep he had found in what felt like years.

Yet, this time, he couldn't dream of Sara. He found only the same hellish refuge as Greg had earlier. The same flames that covered the knife in Nick's nightmares covered the world – his team was his world – in Grissom's.

Dreams presented a strange juxtaposition of peace and desperation. The calmness of candles gently drifted into – onto – flames enveloping Warrick, then Greg, then Nick. The candles burned, but oh so calm were they.

Oh so peaceful, tranquil, even sweet. Yet they burned. He saw the strangled screams and could not understand the peace in them. In slow motion, he watched them melt and burn as Lou Gedda, and his whole team, reincarnated bigger, pulled their own puppet strings.

Sara Sidle was nowhere in sight in his dreams, and he knew why. Even in dreams, his team needed him more. What was left of his team. He sighed, rolling over and clutching his blanket, in restless yet deep sleep.

He could loosen the strings that the inadvertent puppeteer that was Sara Sidle held over his heart.

The strings would stay, but the hands, stronger, that held it – hands of Greg, Nick, Catherine, Warrick – even Sara if she wished to return – those held his heart more strongly. And those deserved his full heart, and his full attention.

He had been distracted for too long, letting Greg watch over Nick's pigheaded actions, letting Catherine take care of many of his supervisory duties, and Warrick – well, he hadn't bothered to think of who'd been watching out for Warrick. The FBI had, he thought, laughing mirthfully in his gently awakening state.

Hearts reappeared in his mind, as did, in true Gil Grissom fashion, quotes. "Leave a place in your heart where dreams may go." To this, he responded. That place, he thought, was still empty, and the dreams still too slippery. All he could feel were the bounce, and the emptiness, as the dreams ricocheted off coronary walls, pounding into heartstrings long gone flat, whirring through uneven piercing tempos and into nothingness, only to bounce back, back again. _I wonder_, he thought, _if those dreams would stay for just one second longer than gravity or momentum would allow – __if that would be enough_.

Yet he had to let go, let go for now and let the puppeteer strings of dreams of Sara Sidle loosen, so he could put his whole heart – or as much of it that was left – into helping the thing that had always been his life, if not his heart: his work, and, more importantly, his team.

He picked up the phone. "Hi Sara. Can I call you back? I'm having trouble with the team."

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

"Hi friend," said the crustily burnt body strongly resembling Greg Sanders.

Nick looked over, horrified, toward the familiar body, taking in the scars and burns littering it.

He cringed just looking at the hand, which was covered in third-degree burns. The body, in response, looked curiously at him, and chuckled. "You alright, Nicky?"

Nick just nodded in repose.

"I'm so sorry man," he said, biting back tears. He wanted to hug Greg, tell him everything was alright – or at least that it would be – but he looked so fragile, as if a hug would merely exacerbate the wounds. Most of all, he wanted to get down on his knees and beg for forgiveness. This was not a display that Nick Stokes typically sought, but he wanted to hug the ground and plead and cry; he wanted to show Greg how truly sorry he was. Yet no action, he thought, could speak loudly enough. He was the source of the burns littering Greg's body.

He was surprised that the fragile, burnt body could – albeit with Greg's usual gracelessness – amble over to the crying heap on the floor and himself offer an arm and a shoulder to cry on.

All Nick could see were the burn marks, and the potential painful reactions when salty tears touched the tender skin.

"It's alright man," Nick heard over and over again, still disbelieving, until sleep took him in the charred, welcoming arms of his best friend.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Catherine Willows went home and poured all of her tequila down the drain. Her entire stash of hard liquor swirled around the kitchen sink.

She watched the colors with awe.

They swirled and swirled.

She loved it. The odors simultaneously enchanted and repulsed her. They were all-too familiar by themselves, but, together, they were the accumulation of her troubles going down the drain.

She left only a bottle of vintage Merlot. She would savor _that_, and with the help of a friend. Popping the cork, she turned around, with glee, holding the bottle above her head for Warrick Brown, also grinning and relieved, to see.

Half a city away, Nick Stokes lay unconscious and guilt-stricken, recently out of a nondescript van, Greg Sanders sat in pain but productivity, covered in cigarette burns, and Gil Grissom slept fitfully, dreaming of the sparkle he missed in Sara Sidle's eyes.

Tina Brown cried half a city away, but Warrick Brown was done with her tears.

After two failed marriages, a fake death and oh so much dreaming, Warrick Brown and Catherine Willows were finally getting their night.

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**Author's Note:** Not much to say here, except the usual reminders and gratitudes. Thanks to Mma63, SawyerFan and GregsLabRat for reviews, and to PisceanPal and racefh for beta. Please check out the poll on my page and, most importantly, review! Thanks a bundle,

Harper


	38. Lost Time

**CHAPTER 39- Lost Time**

Nick and Greg laid unconscious, Nick by exhaustion and Greg by pain. Greg was no longer bound to the chair, so both were sprawled out on the floor,

They were awakened by the sweaty warmth on their shoulders as Smalls shook them to attention, one with each hand.

In a show of unsurprising strength, he tore Nick from his newly rediscovered friend and threw him against the wall.

"Go easy on _that_ one, Smalls," said Louie, casually. "_That _one might be more receptive to our…" – He grinned at Greg, who shuddered in response – "persuasion." He smiled another toothy grin at Greg before turning a more sympathetic smile to Nick. Nick still thought he looked like an evil shark monster.

"No!" Greg yelled.

"No, Mr. Sanders?" He moved towards Greg, leering. "And _you_ intend to stop me?" He poked at one of the many burns littering Greg's body and Greg cried out in pain.

"Just what I thought," he smirked, as he roughly grabbed the arm that had fallen victim to the boiling water. Greg gasped, and Louie squeezed the arm, and Greg screamed, finally succeeding in pulling his arm out of Louie's grasp. He blinked back tears as his pain came out in further slowed gasps.

"Leave him alone," Nick yelled. He lost his control on seeing the pain his friend was going through because of him. "What'd he ever do to you?"

Greg, through his pain, looked up shocked at Nick. Nick grinned back, and Greg gave him an expression between irritation and confusion.

"Mr. Stokes, I suggest you not speak of things you know nothing of," said Louie coolly. He added, with the smile Nick was already sick of seeing, "I know _everything_ you know… everything that's been going on." Turning around, he addressed his younger captive, "Don't I, Greg?" Louie twisted his arm further, twisting the skin as well, simultaneously pushing him back into the barber's chair.

Greg trembled, trying to breathe deeply and slowly through the pain. It was doing very little good.

He turned back to Nick, motioning to Greg's trembling form with his head. "See what quick work I make of my … shall we say, informants?"

Nick merely glared in response.

"And I didn't just use fire by coincidence." Moving back to Greg, he took out a lighter. Even through Greg's pain-hazed eyes, great fear was evident. Though looking directly into Greg's terrified eyes, he continued: "I know, Nick, what your worst fears are." He grabbed Greg's chin, forcing Greg to look into his eyes. "Right, Greggo?"

"You can't call him that," glared Nick.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Grissom checked his new clock. It was an authentic Shakespeare clock Sara had picked up at a local thespian festival years ago, though he had been to cautious to put it up before, especially because their relationship had still been a secret. Now he had no qualms taking risks, like leaving it to stare out over the desk.

Greg had called the Bard's expression arrogant. Greg had imagined, on one of his many purposeless ventures into the office, that the Bard was looking disdainfully at the mess that was Grissom's office, and especially at the evaluation sheets left unfilled – the ones that helped get the CSI's paid.

Grissom willfully distanced his thoughts from Sara, as he was used to doing, as well as from the youngest member of his team, as he hoped he would not have to get used to doing.

Staring at the clock more purposefully this time, with his original intentions, he quickly realized that Nick ought to be back by now. Grissom glanced up at the sky – or rather the ceiling – and hoped that something would improve, and that he would simply be able to chalk his fear up to paranoia based in recent losses – or fake losses. He sighed. This was getting complicated.

He glared at the clock and tried calling Nick for the fifth time.

He didn't want to add the Texan to the list of those he couldn't think of.

******xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**  


Throwing Greg back to the ground, Louie turned to Nick. "_This _one" - he motioned to Greg - "has been less than cooperative." He kicked Greg in the ribs for emphasis. Greg winced.

"_You_, I expect, will be more… helpful."

Greg interrupted. "He doesn't know anything."

"Well, I know he's been investigating."

"Anything he's got the Feds already have. You're not getting anything from him. He's not even running the case."

Louie glared at Greg. "Mouthy, are we, _now_?" He motioned to Smalls, who delivered another kick. Turning to Nick, he added, "I know what your worst fears are, same as I know about his. I know what happened in the coffin. I know about your stalker." Nick's eyes widened. "I know about every terrifying incident that has occurred over the course of your entire life." He leaned in to whisper something in Nick's ear. Nick, still wide-eyed, glared in shock and anger.

Motioning to Greg, he continued. "He may have the information. But he also, apparently, cares about you." He seated Nick with another toothy grin. He turned to Greg again. "I have to go take care of something else. But, tomorrow, if you aren't ready to spill, then your friend had better be ready to face _his_ worst fears. Comprendes?"

Greg glared, but nodded, as Louie left the room at last, done taunting his prisoners.

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Author's Note: Thanks to PisceanPal and Racefh for beta, and to SuzSeb, GregsLabRat, SawyerFan and Mma63 for reviews!

**SuzSeb-** Nick, and the whole team, now knows that Warrick is alive, due to the meeting with Howard, where he reappeared (see chapters 27: Answers and 28: Prodigal Son). Gedda's gang went to get Nick because his investigation was putting them in more heat, as he seemed to be basically continuing what Warrick was doing.

**GregsLabRat-** Have fun camping, and I can assure you there will be at least one more new chapter by the time you get back :)

**SawyerFan- **I promise not to burn Greg's pretty face. It feels like that would pretty much be blasphemous, or at least a very awful crime for an author to commit.

Any comments on the poll? Any suggestions for the next story? I'd love to hear it, and, as usual, reviews are love :)


	39. Contrition and Forgiveness

**CHAPTER 40: Contrition and Forgiveness**

Nick sat back terrified. He knew what he was getting himself into when he set out to save his friend. _No, no I didn't. I was just reacting. Not thinking. I didn't think about the implications it would have._ He sighed. He had messed up everything. He had reacted, and now everything was screwed up for everybody, especially the one friend that had stuck with him all along. And now it wasn't just Greg who was going to be facing the consequences.

Nick was paralyzed by his own guilt, so paralyzed that he didn't notice the pensive – and productively thoughtful – expression on his still alive friend's face.

Greg's bones felt like rust, from too many nights of sleeping on less-than-preferable surfaces, between the concrete floor and the barber chair, and the day's torture. Though he normally moved gingerly, even on the most grueling of triple-shifts, he was less than ginger this time.

He gently edged himself off of the hideously worn chair – its stuffing poured out and the cushioning provided less than comfort, physical or psychological. Tip-toeing carefully over to his friend – less to be quiet and more to ease the various aches and pains in his own body – he moved to wake Nick, or to at least break him from his less-than-productive daze of guilt and fear with a swoosh of a hand in front of Nick's glazed stare. It worked.

Nick looked up, still looking dazed. "Huh?"

"We're going to do something. You do realize that, right?"

"Uh…" Nick threw out a syllable, still breaking out of his trance.

"Remember what you did when Warrick got killed?"

Nick furrowed his brows. "He didn't get killed, I thought."

"Says who?" Greg ventured cautiously.

"Kay Howard. She told us everything."

Greg nodded, understanding. "Okay, when you were told that Warrick was dead –"

"Greg, I'm sorry."

Now it was Greg's turn to be stunned.

Nick continued before Greg had a chance to respond. "I'm sorry for betraying you –"

"Whoa whoa whoa. It's not your fault, don't worry about it." Greg's mind was on a streamline to possible escape strategies, especially with a new cohort – even though he wished Nick wasn't there with him. He had no interest in wasting precious time on blame battles.

He continued to go over possible tools, before registering the expression on Nick's face that told him, very clearly, that his friend's mind was elsewhere entirely.

"Nick? You with me, buddy?"

Nick's forlorn expression as he somberly raised his head confirmed that he was not, in fact, still listening. "Nicky, bud, you gotta pay attention. This is important, I mean – you want to escape, right? You want to live, and get married, and get a promotion, and see Warrick again, and see another Aggies game, even if it is the wrong team?" Greg, always the jokester, no matter the situation, had thought that the Texas A&M reference would, in the very least, break through to his friend. Nick merely nodded, zombie-like.

"That's it." Greg did his best imitation of slapping "upside the head." Nick raised an eyebrow, slowly bringing a hand to his head. "What was that for?"

"Nick! I. Need. Your. Full. Attention. Do. You. Un. Der. Stand. Me?"

Nick nodded, before bursting into tears. This time it was Greg who had no idea how to respond.

"Nick, seriously, what's the big deal?"

"I'm sorry, Greg, I really am."

"Yeah, you already said –"

"No. Please," Nick looked up with desperate eyes. "Please. You at least have to hear me out. You don't have to accept my apology, but you at least have to hear it."

Greg nodded, holding his patience.

"I'm sorry for being such a jerk –"

"What are you talking about?! You weren't a –"

Nick raised his voice, losing patience with the interruptions. It was already a difficult speech to give. "Yes. I was," He said forcefully. "And please, let me finish."

Greg pursed his lips begrudgingly. "Okay. Proceed."

Looking at the way Greg closed his laugh, Nick repressed a small smile. _Funny. Even on the worst days, he still manages to be funny. Maybe he will forgive me. He's such a good-natured guy…_

"Ahem." Nick was distracted from his lost thoughts again. "Oh. Yeah. Sorry," He said, growing nervous. What I meant to say was I'm really sorry. I was bein' bullheaded about the investigation. I towed you along for the ride –"

"You hardly _towed _me. Howard should have explained to you that I _wanted _to go so I could keep an eye on you –"

"Greg!"

"Sorry," Greg looked down bashfully. "Done interrupting."

"Fine. Well, I guess you're right about that. In which case, I'm sorry for conducting the investigation in the first place. For landing you in this trouble. I know you kind of turned on them, and that they may have –" - Greg looked up with a smirk – "Okay, that they _were_ looking for you and wanting revenge, but I know that my investigation helped them find you a lot quicker than they otherwise would have." Taking a deep breath, he continued. "And I know that, as a result, I'm at least in part responsible for those burns and other awful things they did to you. And I apologize for that. I apologize for not trusting you," he said, tearing up more. "For turning on you, letting them take you away. For driving off when you'd been shot, and leaving them to take you and do God knows what else to you, when you were my friend all along. You were doing your best to be my friend, to watch out for me, and to do your job – an important, noble job, I should add – at the same time. And you didn't, not in the least, deserve what I did to you." On finishing his speech, Nick looked down in shame.

"Okay. Now it's my turn."

Nick slowly nodded, as ready as he could ever be for the verbal beat-down that he knew was coming next – and that he knew he deserved.

"I forgive you."

Nick looked up, surprised, expecting a significantly longer tirade. "That's it?"

"Yes. That's it. Now it's time to get out of here. If you want to discuss it later, fine. But right now, I'd rather focus on finding a way to escape before they hurt you too." Nick nodded understandingly and with a grimace. _He probably will give me that chewing out that I really deserve later. He just needs for us both to be productive now, and that's easier if we're on better terms_, Nick reasoned.

They got to work on the grand escape plan.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Catherine woke up feeling warm. She felt warm inside, as if her heart had been restarted, as clichéd as she knew that sounded, and she felt warm on the outside thanks to the embrace that enveloped her. She rubbed her cheek against the growing stubble on Warrick's cheek and sighed contentedly.

In her life, things were finally going right. The world whirl-winded around outside on her team, but, at the center of the hurricane, Warrick was safe and Catherine Willows was happy resting in his arms.

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**Author's Note: **Thanks to PisceanPal and Racefh for beta, and to Maria-Elric, Sasukesmyemo, SawyerFan and SuzSeb for reviews.

**Maria-Elric-** Don't worry. Things get better eventually. I guess it's kind of subjective. Some conditions improve while others don't, and all characters will still be dealing with more than their fair shares of angst. But eventually everything will be better for all of them.

**SawyerFan- **I'm glad you like the level of terror. It's tough to strike a balance between that and being too vicious, and I'm really happy you think it's working so far! To your first question, Greg is a strong one, and I feel like his teammates tend to underestimate just how tough he is, but we'll see if something related to Nick ends up breaking him. As for help arriving in time, that probably depends on your definition of "in time." I hate character deaths (hence Warrick still being alive), but there will definitely be some more unhappiness before help arrives. The last question is the only one I can give a solid answer to: Yes! There will definitely be another chapter coming up soon :) Unfortunately, I may or may not be going on a family vacation at some point this week, so updates might come a bit slower than usual, but hopefully not. If that happens, I might also try to find someone to post for me while I'm gone, since the story itself is pretty much done being written.

**SuzSeb-** We'll see whether Greg folds because of Nick. At this point, I'd say he's trying to avoid facing that possibility, because even he doesn't know what he'd do in that scenario.


	40. Found Time

**CHAPTER 41- Found Time**

Shakespeare chimed. Grissom looked up. An hour had passed.

Though 24 hours was the timeframe for missing persons, it seemed logical to set a different, shorter timeframe on Nick's absence, or that of any member of the team, should they disappear. It was a dangerous investigation, after all.

He sighed, digging up Howard's phone number.

He dialed carefully, yet urgently.

Grissom listened closely, as if the ringing would betray Nick's location. He had no better luck with the message machine.

"Hi, this is Kay Howard. I'm not available at the moment. Please leave a message after the beep."

BEEP

Grissom sighed. This wasn't going well at all.

"Hi, Ms. Howard. This is Gil Grissom. We spoke previously in regards to Greg Sanders and Warrick Brown. I had other concerns regarding another one of my CSI's, Nick Stokes, who you also met yesterday. If you could give me a call back as soon as possible, I would greatly appreciate it. It's quite important."

He hung up dejectedly. He had promised himself that he would do something to prevent further lost. He felt reinvigorated by Warrick's rediscovery – alive. And Sara, he reminded himself, was still in fact alive. It was his chance to see to it that his entire team made it through alive, six for six, and he was going to put his all into the venture. _Now_, he thought. _For finding Nick. Then Greg. I can do this._

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"I can't make it out."

Nick looked up shocked.

"I can't make it out alive, at least not without major help," Greg repeated.

"_I'll_ be your major help."

Greg scoffed, at which Nick was hurt. "You're not enough, Nicky. Even if you were Superman. If you can get to – or rather, _when_ you get out, and to help, you can come bust them and get me out of here, but first priority is the case. The _evidence_ needs to get out, and you're best equipped to get it out. I can distract them. You may be bigger and stronger and tougher – the better _cowboy _in every way – but I'd be willing to bet I have a higher pain tolerance. You have no idea how well they train us for this kind of job. It's my case, and I'm not letting you take the fall for it."

Nick glared, unsure how to begin his rebuttal. Thinking quickly, but still overwhelmed by the many past events, he mustered out a simple, defiant "No."

"Nick, this isn't up for discussion. The evidence needs to get out of here. I'm clearly," he began, motioning down at the bruises and burns that littered his body, with a grimace, "not best able to do that."

Nick just shook his head, forcing Greg to take a new approach, one of desperation. "Nick. Seriously." He took a deep breath. "You said before you owed me." Nick merely nodded. "And you're right. You do." Nick's eyes grew sadder, guiltier. "I followed you around for a big case, even though I knew you were wrong. _Now_, I want you – _need_ you – to return the favor. You want my forgiveness, than you have to go out there and get out, without me and with the evidence.

"But what if you die?"

Greg didn't know how to answer that question. He had answered it for himself many times. He had told himself his death would be acceptable in the line of duty, for the case. He had told himself not to cry over it, because it would be worth it. It would be simple. Death always was. He dealt with death on a regular basis, and he could deal with it, even his own. But he'd never really thought about – or rather he'd avoided thinking about, putting it entirely out of his head – the explanation he would offer those who cared about him.

Truthfully, he'd rationalized, insisting to himself that they didn't care _that_ much. He'd always been able to tell that Warrick was Nick's preferred friend – that he was just the measly second choice left. Sara, in truth, had been the person he counted as his best friend. But she hadn't even cared enough to say goodbye or even tell him she'd been dating their boss for years, even as she knew about Greg's feelings for her.

Who, after all of this, was he bound to? When he stepped into the line of fire, who did he really have to apologize to? Who would really miss his company _that _much?

Truly, there was only one person who had consistently showed that they cared, and they had been out of the picture for a while. Sofia Curtis had comforted him on his worst days, had noticed when he was at his lowest.

Early on, the rest of the team had alienated her, but Greg, being the unassuming kid at heart, incapable of holding grudges, had welcomed her with open arms. She, even with her gruff manner that, to many, appeared unfriendly, had welcomed grave shift's olive branch, even if it – or rather he – clearly, as she learned, did not speak in fact for the whole tree.

They had become quiet friends of opposite personalities, but of caring and consideration nonetheless.

On one of Greg's first emotionally difficult cases – one of a burn victim – it was Sofia who had forced him out of his funk. Whereas Sara or Nick would have just watched and let him wallow, unwilling to break through the somber exterior that was his to do, Sofia had gotten in his face. Nobody else had shown sympathy. But Sofia did more than that. She had been willing to take on the significantly harder task. She had told him to get over it, and that's exactly what he needed to hear.

As tough as Greg was, especially in the ways that came with being a mole, there was some degree of seriousness and fierceness that he simply lacked. He was a nice guy to the core. He had, he remembered, been the guy Sara could go to for a hug, though never for more. For all his gentleness, he had needed a friend to push him, one to help him tough it out. Sofia had done that, and her genuine, though cold, as some people interpreted it, brand of sympathy came as an added bonus to the tough love he so cherished.

Greg regretted not recognizing her more. Just as he felt underappreciated by Sara, he knew he had undervalued Sofia. She had been working strange hours lately. Apparently her mother was sick – had gotten shot in a case that Sara was working. Her mother was a cop, which had played a significant part in spurring Sofia toward her career choice. Later, as Sara was leaving, he had vaguely heard through the grapevine that Sofia was as well.

Though she returned occasionally – they still hadn't hired her replacement and hence needed her greatly from time to time – he rarely saw her. And in his own grief over Sara, and the stress of the Feds' case against Gedda, he had neglected to put in the effort. Normally, she had put in the effort, but had failed to do so in her own grief over her mother's death.

Greg understood Nick's guilt, having let down his own most dependable and loyal friend. Yet he couldn't bring himself to answer the question. The two friends that he cared about most were Nick and Sara, and they clearly didn't feel the same way about him. The friend that had cared about him had left, struck with her own problems, and he had failed to show adequate concern for her in the first place. All of the relationships in his life, he realized, were unrequited, which had kindly left him with no obligations as his potential death drew closer.

He finally brought himself to answer Nick's question. "The case will still get solved."

Nick glared, and then nodded grimly. He wanted Greg's forgiveness. It was his duty, he knew, to accept Greg's plans because Greg had done the same for him. He realized, with great distaste, that Greg's plan wasn't even more dangerous and stupid than his own. Greg, at least, knew all of the facts. He had no choice but to consent. Death was a threat no matter what happened. At least this way he was forgiven.

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Grissom needed a plan. He set about retracing Nick's steps. As a CSI, that made for a logical place to start. He looked to the evidence log. _Nick Stokes- Garbage Truck_.

He wrinkled his brow. _Well, it's big enough for him to get lost in. Or take a nap in_. Grissom shook his head. Nick is one sleep-deprived CSI. Falling asleep in a truck full of evidence would hardly be surprising.

He made his way toward the yard where the truck was stored. First, he headed into the truck, grateful it was old enough that nothing would be rotting there. He began digging. Old newspaper headlines fascinated him, the insect bite marks even more so. He was surprised when he came across something sticky in the pile.

He pulled his hand back instinctually. Even through the latex, he could feel it. He carefully removed it. _A banana peel. Definitely something that should have rotted by now._

Seeing the growing maggot community, likely of the common house fly, his suspicions were confirmed. _Someone's been here recently._

He knew that the banana should have decomposed more, and the maggots progressed more, if the banana had been left from last time his team processed it. Furthermore, he liked to think that Greg would not be stupid enough to leave a banana peel in a garbage truck of evidence. The young lab rat-turned-CSI-turned-mole had come a long way since peeing in a crime scene.

He bagged the banana peel to process for fingerprints. He reached into his pocket to wipe the sticky nectar off of his latex gloves. Seeing a trash can – one unconnected to the crime scene – he headed over to dispose of the banana-goop-covered napkin. On the ground next to the trash can, he noticed something: a napkin covered in what looked to be blood and mucus.

Picking it up carefully, he felt a strong hunch in his stomach telling him this was the key. Though Grissom didn't often operate on hunches, the bodily fluids made it substantial enough.

Looking carefully, he noticed blood drops leading from the truck toward what appeared to be tire treads. The tire treads looked quite generic – he doubted he'd get a match on those – but the blood drops, he knew, revealed a unique set of DNA. He smiled wistfully, thinking of Greg. Bending down, he also picked up some dirt scattered on the concrete. It looked different than the dust and debris that had collected, and looked as if it had been tracked in on feet. He bagged it just in case, prepared to send it to Trace.

With evidence in hand, he headed back to the lab in a hurry, checking his phone again for a message from Kay Howard.

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Warrick Brown woke up in an uncomfortable position, with his arm tucked awkwardly under something heavy. He tried to turn over. Then he realized the source of his discomfort, and ceased being uncomfortable. He was distracted by other emotions.

"Mornin' Sonny," she said dreamily.

He snickered. "Hey Cher," he replied, double entendre evident as he pulled a piece of the blanket away from her. Thinking it over, he added, "But you really don't want to hear my singing voice."

"Oh babe, I'd do anything to hear your voice." And he knew it was true.

The poignant moment was lost when she started humming 'And the Beat Goes On.'

"As long as I don't get killed in a freak skiing accident."

She looked up questioning his mention of death. "I won't let you."

"I promise not to go skiing anytime soon, especially without you, as tempting as it is on the wonderful snowy white wonderland that is the Vegas strip."

"Have you ever actually been skiing? I mean, living on the Strip for your whole life?"

"Nope."

"I'll have to take you one time. You, me and Linds."

Warrick grinned appreciatingly. "That sounds awesome. Very cool," he added, fake shivering.

"Yeah, exactly. With this heat."

"Tell me about it."

"Remember when Sonny and Cher did actually come to Vegas?"

Warrick looked at Catherine incredulously. "You actually _remember_ going to that show?"

"Well, my parents told me about it."

"Yeah. Trust Sam Braun to get tickets there."

"Yeah." Catherine chuckled, enjoying the respite in their shared Vegas childhoods. She cuddled deeper into Warrick's arms. "Woulda been better than the stuff here today."

"Tell me about it. I miss old Vegas."

_Funny_, thought Catherine. _What I missed about the old Vegas for the past few weeks was Warrick Brown. So new Vegas seems perfectly fine to me now._

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**Author's Note**: First of all, thanks to PisceanPal and racefh for beta and to LostLadyKnight, SawyerFan, GregsLabRat, Mma63, Twiggy, NicknGrisFan and PisceanPal for reviews on the last chapter! To individual reviews,

NickNGrisFan- We'll see whether Nick breaks, or what exactly happens to him. They have a good escape plan, though it is also to be seen whether that's successful. I will, however, say that Nick and Greg end up with very different experiences, for various reasons. Sorry for the non-answers there, and I hope that was enough to pique your curiousity :)

LostLadyKnight- I knew you'd go for the YoBling :) I promise the next YoBling scene will be longer. In fact, the longest YoBling part so far in this story is coming up (and I hope you liked the one that just got posted). I hope you enjoy it!

Mma63- Thanks! Greg and Nick's friendship is moving forward, and soon they'll hopefully be good. And you're right, they will definitely try to help each other out. The teamwork will definitely be key in the escape plan (though no promises as to whether that's successful). Lol, cavalry would be useful. I'd love to see Nick and Greg riding horses. Nick is already a cowboy XD. Greggo would make a pretty funny surfer dude cowboy. Now I'm imagining the rest of the team rescuing them on horseback :)

Twiggy- I'm sorry there wasn't enough YoBling in the last chapter. I've been trying to balance it out between the different characters, though Nick and Greg have been getting more than their share, I realize. But I promise there's a lot more YoBling to come, including the longest YoBling scenes. I hope you liked the one in this chapter though.

GregsLabRat- LOL! You go get 'em! I promise I'll let you have Smalls, Louie and Greene once I'm done with them (at least if Nick and Greg will let you and they're still alive). I'm glad you liked Nick there. I've let him be a little less than a good friend for much of the story, so it only seemed fair to let him get the apologies out. He's definitely been sweatin' out over giving Greg over to Gedda for a long enough time, and he is a good friend at heart. Hopefully he'll get to work on the less idiotic moves soon though. I promise he definitely makes it up to Greg later on.

SawyerFan- I'm really glad the apology worked. Nick's a genuine guy, but I feel like he does sometimes get very close to the line between sappy and genuine. It looks like my vacation won't be for at least another few days, so you won't have to worry about withdrawal symptoms just yet XD. And I'll try to get out a chapter or two before I leave, or maybe even find a friend to post for me while I'm gone, since the next 9 chapters are done being written. But there's definitely more angst to come!

PisceanPal23- Thanks so much! No worries about the time. Hope everything goes well with all of the moving. Have fun with the CSI moment XD. I promise at least a few more twists and turns to come!

Also props to my lovely Facebook wife Nani2san, who is dutifully making her way through the story.

**General Note: I was originally gonna split this part into two separate chapters, so reviews had better make up for it (hint hint). To drop an extra reviewing incentive, I'm looking for names for a key character in my next story. I'm especially looking for male first names. Review with name ideas and I might just use them for them for the next story! Next chapter will be the grand escape, and an unfortunate hitch in Warrick and Cath's plans. Thanks for R&Ring!**


	41. Separation on Repeat

**CHAPTER 43: Separation on Repeat**

Smalls entered the room, fixing his gaze immediately on Greg – or where he thought Greg should be. He couldn't see Greg though. The room was dark.

Stepping further into the room, he heard the door close, and footprints scamper heavily away from him. They were heavy enough to be those of a man in pain. Greg Sanders.

He followed, and was greeted with a knock to the back of his head. Growling, he turned around, punching. He could sense his target dodging his fist with surprisingly agile motion. No matter. Smalls would deal with him.

He punched in a circle, swinging his fist around him. Sure enough, he heard a yelp. He reached out to grab what he had just hit, and caught a finger. He bent it backward and was greeted with another yelp.

Greg slipped his now broken finger out of Smalls' hand with great pain, with the help of a distracting kick to the brute's shins. He was pushed, hard, in return. He pushed back, knowing he would be no match for the giant. But whatever would keep him distracted was a good idea.

He tried to knee Smalls, but the man was too tall. Smalls, however, got the idea, and returned with a more correctly placed knee. Greg gasped, falling to the ground in pain.

In agony, he tried to crawl forward and dodge the quickly protruding leg, reaching out to kick him. He dodged the first kick, but not the second, which hit him squarely in the ribs. He yelped again.

He was fairly confident that Nick was out the door by now, but it still didn't do any harm making more distracting noise.

As he tried again to inch away, a foot caught him in the same place as the knee had. He curled over into a ball with a small scream, but was pulled apart by another foot, this time aimed at his ribs.

Again and again, he tried to curl up, to protect his already sore stomach and ribs, but the feet tore into him. It was just like being in the alley again. He shuddered, waiting patiently, hopefully, and no longer as loudly as possible for the end. It didn't come.

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A phone call seared through Catherine and Warrick's shared tranquility.

Warrick groaned, reaching around through his clothes for the pocket containing his cell phone.

"Looking for this?" He grinned as Catherine held up his phone, having wrestled it from his coat pocket.

"Yep." He turned to his phone, noting the caller. "Ugh."

"Warrick! Where the hell are you?!" He was hit by déjà vu, recalling a very similar conversation with Grissom when he had failed to show up on time to investigating the case – Jason Lewes's – that had set off this entire nightmare for CSI. Then, he had responded that Sara's departure hadn't hit him well, that the team wasn't home quite the way it used to be.

He had been surprised by Grissom's uncharacteristically sharp response. _Geez,_ Warrick thought retrospectively. _Griss must've been under a lot of stress, especially with Sara leaving._

Having just felt the pain – even for a short period of time – of being separated from the love of his life, who he knew he wasn't as close to as Grissom was to Sara, he gained new empathy for Grissom's frustration and anguish, especially after Warrick tried to somewhat blame his own problems on Grissom's dearly departed.

"Warrick?" Howard repeated.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm… I'm out, just getting some stuff," he said as he realized that he wasn't supposed to be here. He was still supposed to be in hiding. He had known that, but he couldn't resist the look in Catherine's eyes, the one that told him how much she'd needed him.

Catherine Willows was the definition of Vegas for Warrick Brown, and she was the last woman he'd label vulnerable. Consequentially, the pained look in her eyes, the one that told him she needed him there, spoke volumes to him. He had no choice but to follow, as if in a trance.

_She needed me_, was the only excuse his imagination could conjure up. It would not, he suspected, be enough of an excuse for Howard.

Looking down at Catherine's contented figure, he knew it was time to go – but just for now. _Just until this case blows away._ He hoped they all made it out of the case alive. He kissed Catherine's forehead as she looked up at him regretfully. She knew too why he had to leave, and understood. She could get by for the rest of the case. As long as she knew he was still there. Catherine Willows had weathered many losses and hardships in her life. That was one of many things –_infinite things_, he thought – that made her so much better for him than Tina.

Were she Tina, he would be consoling her, convincing her that he'd be alright, as she made funeral arrangements.

It wasn't Tina's fault, he knew. His wife – _ex-wife now_, he corrected himself – dealt with death almost as often as he did, but in a very different way.

As a nurse, she dealt with death regularly, but also with loss, concepts that he differentiated sharply. The difference, he knew, was that Tina had to regularly deal with patients _before_ they died.

Warrick, on the other hand, as well as Catherine and all of CSI and similarly occupied officers, dealt only with the aftermath. They never had to deal with the crushed hope and goodbyes, only with the lifeless corpses, which stood simply as memorials and artifacts of past days, even past hours.

Cadavers, to Warrick – and, he suspected, to Catherine as well – didn't inspire fear as much as they did respectful remembrance.

Consequentially, Catherine could deal with the situation at hand, as Warrick walked out the door like a soldier primed for battle and its gruesome possibilities, even as he retreated to the safe haven offered by the FBI. Catherine could still believe that she'd see him again. Even after dealing with so many deaths – and even accepting Warrick as dead – she was still capable of hope.

He slipped his phone back into his pocket, kissed Catherine gently on the forehead and made his way out the door.

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Hearing Smalls enter – as Greg said he would alone – Nick looked remorsefully at the friend he was going to leave behind, yet again. Nick hid behind the door.

"Where the hell are the lights?" Smalls asked, scared. With their technical prowess, Nick and Greg had figured out how to cut the power, leaving the windowless room in pitch black, especially for anyone entering from the brighter outdoors. Smalls' eyes were definitely still adjusting to the dark as Nick inched closer toward the door.

He tried – successfully – not to jump when his thoughts were interrupted by a yelp.

He was relieved it wasn't Greg. He could hear Smalls reacting, trying to find the source of whatever pain – likely involving a metal scrap Greg pried from the chair – that Greg had inflicted on him. A scuffle ensued, and Nick could hear Greg cry out this time.

Clanging noises filled the air. He heard Smalls grunt. Greg let out a pained noise and Nick thought he heard a kick.

Part of him wanted to rush in to the rescue, to protect his already hurt friend from the beast. He wanted to rush in and carry his friend out to safety. He wanted to save him. But he couldn't.

Nick knew the noise was a carefully planned diversion. Carefully clutching the package, he opened the door and cast one last short glance into the darkness that sheltered his fighting best friend. He shut the door quietly, not allowing the light to filter in all the way to Smalls' awareness. Setting his sights to the task at hand, he ran. Freedom didn't taste as sweet as he would have hoped.

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**Author's Note: Thanks to SawyerFan, LaughableBlackStorm, GregsLabRat, LostLadyKnight, Sasukesmyemo and PisceanPal for reviews, and to PisceanPal23 and Racefh for beta. **

SawyerFan- Thanks so much! Your review made my night. I've been debating whether to go with longer or shorter chapters, and I think the next story will have longer chapters. As for his strategy in getting Nick to do the escape as a somewhat solo mission, Greg's a smart guy, and I tried to show just how much he cares, but also how that affects the darker places in his mind, in the process. And I promise there will almost certainly be more friendship drama surrounding Nick, Sara, Sofia and Greg in my next story, Stress Fractures (I only have two chapters of that story up so far, but it's the main thing I've been working on lately since For Warrick is just about done).

LaughableBlackStorm- Don't worry. I'll try not to answer that question just yet XD. I didn't mean to make Greg's internal monologue quite so sad, since I think of him as a relatively positive person, but I know that that was a really dark topic for him. I feel like Nick's question really forced him to re-evaluate a lot of stuff in his life. And you can kind of thank LostLadyKnight for the YoBling scene, as she has been a major inspiration for most of the YoBling scenes thus far.

PisceanPal23- I'm glad your move went well! Good catch! Thanks for the correction. It is now fixed.

LostLadyKnight- Lol. I know I've done well if I can distract you from the YoBling!

Sasukesmyemo- Thanks so much! I'm glad you liked it :)

GregsLabRat- I really miss Sofia too. She was such a strong character. I really hated how the show didn't offer an explanation for her sporadic appearances. She showed up periodically for part of season eight, but now she's just gone, and they didn't say why. It's weird, since she was a main character, and they made sure to explain every disappearance on CSI, along with on NY and Miami, so it seems really weird that they would just neglect her. If anything, main character disappearances create good story line potential, a la Dead Doll/For Gedda story lines. I look forward to you kicking Louie, et al's butts also. And I'll definitely add you on FB.


	42. Anticipation

Author's Note: Thanks to Sasukesmyemo394, PisceanPal23, GregsLabRat and SawyerFan for reviews on the last chapter, and to racefh and PisceanPal for beta!

Sasukesmyemo- Lol, I think we all want to give Greggo hugs right now. Poor baby. By the way, I love your new story so far. Maybe when I give Louie, Smalls and Greene to GregsLabRat to finish off, we can all get Greg to hug.

SawyerFan- Lol. I totally understand. I'm definitely a greedy reader too. And good catch. I think Nick is definitely reconsidering who his best friend is. But, then again, it's still possible to have more than one. Lol this seems so high schoolish.

GregsLabRat- Hmmm good question. I'll see if I can find a way for you to kill him in the story... not sure though.

PisceanPal23- Good catches. I hope this chapter answers some of your questions (though I know you pretty much know the answers to them anyways by now) :)

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**CHAPTER 43- ANTICIPATION**

Warrick Brown had been right. Catherine Willows could handle the uncertainty he handed her as he walked out he door. Sure, chances were everything would be alright. Nick and Greg were the ones in danger, not Warrick - not anymore, or at least that's what he had hoped.

He was still a wanted man. He had been on Gedda's heels for quite some time. The only reprieve was that now it was Greg, Nick and the FBI that represented the most substantial threat. Warrick hoped this meant that he would be in the clear. Also, he was stealthy. He was good at staying hidden. After all, he'd tailed Nick and Greg around for quite some time and they never realized it was even him. For all he knew, they would have never realized he was there had he not left them so many messages. Knocking Nick out in the locker room had been a nice touch, and not one they could forget, either.

Catherine could handle the uncertainty. What she couldn't handle was the waiting. She had waited years for a relationship between her and Warrick to pan out, but now that it had, she didn't want to have to wait - not this way, at least - to see him again. And though she could tolerate - barely - the uncertainty, given that his odds were very, very good, she hated the idea that he could be torn away from her already, after what felt like a lifetime of waiting.

Nonetheless, she was a doer. She made her way to the FBI office. Maybe they couldn't sneak away everywhere, but at least she could work with him on whatever he was doing, keep him company in FBI protective custody, or help him on the case. Whatever it was he was doing, she would help, if it meant being there with him.

She was, after all, an independent woman. She would not, of all things, lay on her couch waiting for her man to return. She would go out there and make sure that he did. But first, she had one thing to do.

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Grissom rushed to the lab. He debated in his mind whether he would rather drop off DNA with the pleasant technician there, Wendy Simms, or if he was best off getting his diversion to Hodges at trace over with. His decision was made for him as he glanced through both doors to find both lab techs absent.

_Hmm,_ he thought. _It just doesn't seem fair. Hodges is always there when I _don't_ want him there, following me around the lab, dropping off college t-shirts that aren't even my size, making generally snide comments – when I actually need him to be here, he's gone._ Grissom shrugged his shoulders as he realized that he didn't distinctly remember seeing Hodges since Sara had left. _Probably just because you don't remember _anything_ happening after Sara left_, his needling conscience told him.

_Still, _Grissom thought, _There can't be too much I've missed out on in the lab. I'm observant, even if I haven't been paying as much attention in the last few months. _Trying to be observant, he studied the labs from which they'd disappeared.

He began at the Trace lab. He saw a Brady Bunch lunchbox. Snooping quietly, he uncovered a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich, a half-eaten apple and a bag of potato chips inside. Next to the food was a sickeningly sweet note. _"Hope you have a great day at work, Hodgekins! Love, M"_

Grissom couldn't help but laughing. _Probably from his mother,_ he thought, grinning at Hodges' being so pathetic. Though Grissom had never particularly like Hodges, he found it relieving to find someone who beat him hands down in the geeky category.

Also inside the box was the game figurine that had been previously identified as Mindy Bimms. _Now, he's just weird,_ Grissom thought. _Snooping on the lab techs is really a great stress reliever, _he chortled to himself.

He continued. Nothing else notable. But then he noticed the oddity.

There was no chair. This was indeed curious.

He proceeded to the DNA lab, browsing around through samples. He saw one that came back to Greg Sanders. _Curious_, he thought. _Probably has something to do with Nick's investigation._

He continued. All lab equipment was in place and the lab perfectly neat, almost to a Stepford Wife point, except a strange post-it note hanging on a cabinet. _"Dear Clumsy, I promise not to electrocute you. Love, Lymphoma"_

He wasn't even going to try to decipher this one.

The only other unusual items were a figurine he recognized from Hodges' game and a Star Trek DVD. _Apparently Hodges or Archie has been invading this lab,_ he thought. _Because I doubt someone like… whatever her name is, Wanda, Mandy, Mindy… I doubt she's a Star Trek junkie, though Archie almost certainly is._

His keen and practiced detective eyes searching for patterns, he quickly noticed the same oddity plagued the DNA lab as had befallen Trace. There was no chair.

Now Grissom was really confused.

Contemplating the pattern and possible explanations, he moved to Archie's AV lab. Archie, he knew, was never someone who would really annoy him. Archie defined lovable lab tech and was not only reliable but, unlike David Hodges, very difficult to hate. And perhaps he could, if not present more clues, help Grissom discover the location of his missing – and more needed than ever – lab techs.

It was precisely as his mind spoke those thoughts that he found the two missing lab techs, and quickly realized one other major development he had missed.

Nudging the door open, revealed six contented lab techs stuffed into the tiny lab and watching a man with pointy ears say something in a very strange language. _Star Trek._ Grissom sighed. The lab techs sat on chairs that looked familiar – ones that had come from the lab. He chuckled mirthfully. When CSIs went missing, it was a problem, to be worried about. They could be kidnapped or beat up. But when lab techs went missing, they were in the AV lab watching _Star Trek _re-runs. _So typical,_ he thought, amused.

Bobby Dawson from Ballistics, Mandy Webster from Prints and Henry Andrews from Toxicology looked back at him curiously. Archie Johnson, still immersed in whatever the pointy-eared guy was saying, and in another screen off to the side, did not look up. Hodges and Wendy Simms – he finally remembered her name – sat blissfully next to each other. _Wait,_ Grissom thought. _Are they holding hands? Curious._

They were indeed holding hands. The rest of the mystery unraveled. The notes. Dear Clumsy; Love, Lymphoma. Dear Hodgekins, Love, M… Every step through the lab reminded Grissom just how unobservant he had been since Sara left.

"Hodges, Wendy. Sorry to interrupt – "

"It's alright. We've already seen this episode," Wendy quickly assured him.

_That's not what I was worried about interrupting,_ Grissom thought with a chuckle. "I need you guys to process some evidence. I've already placed it in your labs. On the counter. It's top priority. It has to do with Gedda."

The lab tech couple nodded in unison, before stepping up together, hands still held, and stealing a last glance at the screen before following Grissom out the door and making their ways to their respective labs.

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Nick was exhausted. The sun beat down on him and he shuddered. He hadn't eaten something in far too long, and had taken quite a beating from Smalls at the scene of the truck, and again in the room. Greg had said he thought Nick had a concussion.

_Greg_. Nick hoped his friend was still alive. He knew Smalls had been even worse on his friend, far worse, and that the cruelty would only progress with Nick gone. He shuddered, careful not to cry and lose precious moisture. Nick knew that he had to find the crime lab, find some hint of Las Vegas life in order for his friend to have half a chance. But there was also the napkin left behind at the truck scene. He could hope.

He clutched the evidence closer to him. Even his arms needed a break from carrying the heavy evidence kit. He switched hands, knowing it would hardly ease the burden. And they couldn't make the argument that it was tampered with.

All he saw was desert. He started running.

Eventually, he could barely make out the city in the distance. He knew it was Vegas. He felt like his feet couldn't carry him any further. His calves screamed at him.

The dry, hot desert air offered no relief, though he could at least be grateful that he didn't have humidity to contend with. Nonetheless, just the thought of moisture was more than inviting.

Finally, he got what he was looking for. Achy legs pushed him to reach out his hand as he heard the sound of a racing sports car. _Finally_, he thought. _I can save Greg now._

The car came into view. It was a white Camerro with a young woman – probably mid-twenties – in it, sitting next to a well-dressed young man. Their equally blonde hair streamed out of the wind of the convertible. Nick was grateful for that much, hoping that they'd at least hear better with the convertible top rolled down.

Desperately, he tried to flag it down. The man glared, and the woman looked at him like he was some sort of filthy trash. He could hear the man yell out something about a hobo as he passed. _That's what we get for protecting the wonderful citizens of Clark County_, he thought bitterly. _Hobo jokes and glares._

It felt like bitter irony. LVPD always warned drivers not to pick up hitchhikers.

His mouth watered as he stared at the retreating water bottle clutched in the man's hands, enviously. He wished he could have those sunglasses perched on the woman's nose too. He memorized the license plate, just for the hell of it. If he ever dealt with those two as suspects, he'd make no extra kindnesses. _Assuming I even live to be a CSI again…_

Dazed, Nick continued to wander, trying to find some sign of life. It felt all the more painful all of the sudden, his weary body having finally gotten used to the wonderful fantasy that the speeding car represented: _rest_.

He moaned, knowing nobody could hear him. Because nobody was there. He had miles to go before he reached the city, and he already felt like passing out again. Minutes went by, as he paused, barely savoring the almost-break, when his calves finally collapsed underneath him. _Sorry, Greg_ was the last thought going through his mind as he fell.

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Greg felt like his whole body was on fire. One arm was scalded with boiling water. He was covered with cigarette burns and the other had fallen victim to the lighter. He shuddered, struggling to breathe through the pain.

Louie ambled over, followed by Smalls and Greene.

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Author's Note: Thanks for reading (and hopefully reviewing)! Many readers have encouraged me to write longer chapters, and this one is the second chapter that was originally more than one chapter that had been combined. I'm hoping that reviews will make up for the decreased number of chapters as a result (wink wink).

What I'm really excited about right now is that I've finally found a solid plot for the next story I'm going to write. Hopefully, I'll be done writing it before I go off to school in a few weeks. It's a pretty dark story, and will once again star Greg and Nick. It's inspired by a major human rights catastrophe in Ciudad Juarez, Mexico. At the moment, I'm looking for potential beta readers for it who are comfortable dealing with dark subject matter and a slash relationship (though it won't be heavy on the smut).

Anyways, please review.

:)

Harper

(Eventually, I'll get through an author's note without a single emoticon. I swear.)


	43. Hope and Desolation

**Chapter 44- Hope and Desolation**

Greg felt like his whole body was on fire. One arm was scalded with boiling water. He was covered with cigarette burns and the other had fallen victim to the lighter. He shuddered, struggling to breathe through the pain.

Louie ambled over, followed by Smalls and Greene. Smalls flicked the lighter on again.

Greg's eyes opened wider.

"Do you really want this Greg? Or do you want to tell us what we need to hear?"

Greg stayed silent.

Smalls drew closer, lighter in hand. He smiled sinisterly at Greg, who shuddered again.

The hand with the lighter drew nearer to Greg's neck, dragging the flame down, ever so carefully without it touching skin. Greg shivered at the nearing heat. Breathing deeply, he looked up at Smalls fearfully.

Suddenly the flame was on Greg's neck, and he screamed. Tears streamed down his face.

"Do we finally have your attention?" asked an amused Smalls.

Greg just glared, trying to look strong in spite of the sobs wracking his body instinctually, as the flame continued to devour his shoulder. Finally, Smalls removed the flame and Greg gasped, panting heavily, as if breathing deeply enough would alleviate the strong, lingering pain.

Smalls looked to Louie, as if asking what to do next. Louie stared back at Greg.

The staring contest lasted for almost a minute, but was broken with a slap.

Greg recoiled.

Louie looked into Greg's glaring eyes, to see a hint of pride he didn't expect to see.

Louie smiled, and motioned Greene and Smalls, who were bewildered by their boss's smile.

Greg watched them leave, fearing what was to come next. Greg thought he had a handle on living through the pain, but the combination of not knowing what was next and being in such overwhelming pain consumed him.

They re-entered the room. Smalls leered at him, and Greg looked off to the side, at anything other than that terrifying smile.

Greg could feel the presence behind him as Louie crossed the room. He shuddered at the breath down his back. Warm, rancid air assaulted him as a voice whispered hideously in his ear, "We're gonna break you, Sanders. You know that. We all know that. So why not make it easier on yourself? This is…" He paused, returning to Greg's other ear more viciously, "Your final chance."

Greg grimaced, but remained silent. Silent and scared.

"Very well," Louie said, reluctantly. "Go ahead, both of you." He motioned to Greene and Smalls, who leered back at Greg.

Greg shuddered, closing his eyes and preparing for the worst.

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"Hey Linds," Catherine said softly, in her imagination, to her teenage daughter. They were not close, not in the way Catherine would have preferred. Catherine had been very close to her own mother, in part by necessity. They had been peas in a pod, both living the same quintessentially Vegas life, at least when Catherine was younger. But Catherine had wanted a different life for her daughter, and Lindsey was sent to the prestigious Butterfield Academy, not quite so happily on Catherine's hefty check from Sam Braun.

The Vegas her daughter was growing up in was a very different animal than the one Catherine had grown up in herself - more dangerous. The idea of Lindsey hitchhiking through Vegas was terrifying, and seeing what trouble kids Lindsey's own age got into, as both the victims and perpetrators of vicious crimes, on a regular basis and on a very direct level, terrified Catherine.

No matter what, however, she found her daughter following in her own footsteps. While she chastised Lindsey for hitchhiking, she knew she had done the same as a teen in Vegas. She gave her daughter a hard time for all of the nights caught on the phone - or worse, the couch - with boys, she knew she had done the same. _Hell, I just did the same, more even, with Warrick, on that very same couch,_ she thought, blushing.

Nonetheless, there was one significant difference she had always wanted for her daughter, especially after Eddie's death. She wanted her daughter to have a father, someone she could count on. Sure, Catherine had had Sam Braun, but he was hardly the admirable, honest citizen. _He was a casino owner, for God's sake. He was at the center of Sin City_. She hadn't even known he was her father until a few years ago.

What she wanted for Lindsey was different. She had very rarely told Lindsey the dirty details of her love life, chiefly because the men she dated were dirty. They were dirt, scumbags, all too often. Warrick, however, was a different kind of man. Few people - even unruly teens like Lindsey - could not respect Warrick.

Catherine was hardly a hopeless romantic, or the kind of woman to begin shopping for wedding dresses after the first date. But she knew, as she had always known, that between her and Warrick there was something special.

Walking through her own hallway, she stared at the pictures and imagined the gorgeous turquoise eyes of the love of her life staring back out. She imagined his strong arms wrapped not just around her, but around Lindsey as well. She imagined an icy blue tie around his neck, to match the same blue on her dress in that Christmas photo.

Moving to the bathroom, she saw the extra space in the cup holding the family's toothbrushes, imagining the red-striped Sonicare one that she'd seen Warrick using at work often joining her and Lindsey's Crest brushes in the little cup. She remembered the way he smelled, and putting that same, manly one that smelled like a harder lavender spring next to her own Pantene bottle.

As silly as it was, she imagined never having to remind him to put the seat down, as she'd had to do with almost all past love interests in her life.

_Love interests,_ she thought. _That's what they'd been. But Warrick's different. He's not a _love interest_. He's a man. He's _my_ man._

She smiled the biggest smile she'd held in a week, to herself, in the middle of her ivory and custard colored bathroom, just from imagining. Because it wasn't just imagining anymore. She knew it wouldn't be. Finally leaving the room, she made her way down the hallway.

Knocking on her daughter's room - she should be awake by now anyways, getting ready for school - Catherine gently entered.

_Honey, I want to tell you about someone. Someone special to me, who's gonna be special to you too, I think. _

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The evidence did not take long for Hodges or Wendy to process.

Hodges, in a surprisingly good – or at least unaggravating – mood, handed Grissom his results swiftly, only delivering a mini-monologue. "The trace composition of the soil is unique to certain areas of the desert, specifically those near small bodies of water. In this desert, that pretty much means puddles," he elaborated. Grissom nodded, thanking Hodges more graciously than usual before heading off to DNA.

Wendy greeted Grissom with concern, afraid to even speak the results aloud, choosing to let him read them instead. He gently, but quickly, took them. The mucus was indeed Nick Stokes'. Grissom nodded curtly, knowing this did, almost certainly, mean he had been kidnapped too.

The hard part over, Wendy began to speak. "The first blood sample was a match to a Robert Smalls, as was the saliva. The –"

"First?" asked Grissom. "There was more than one blood sample?" _Uh oh. The second one's Nick's then. At least he didn't bleed too much. There wasn't that much blood on there… or was there._ He shuddered.

She merely nodded. "The second was a match to a Jason Lewes, past DB."

Grissom looked up, happily surprised. _Good work Nick,_ he thought.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

Nick woke up with a headache. _Is this what Hell feels like,_ he wondered. _I know I did wrong by abandoning and not trusting my best friend, but do I really deserve eternal damnation?_ He couldn't force his eyes open, and simply lay prone, wherever he was.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

Thanks so much to PisceanPal23 for beta-ing and to PisceanPal23, SawyerFan, Sasukesmyemo, LaughableBlackStorm and knadineg for reviews! I'll add more author's notes and reply to more reviews later (I promise), but right now I just got back from hanging out with two of my best friends of the last decade who are about to leave in a week, and I'm mighty tired, but I didn't want to deprive all of my lovely, loyal readers and reviewers of an update.

Reviews are love, make my day, and definitely help the story go faster, so leave a little love please!

Harper


	44. Almost Perfection

**Chapter 45: Almost Perfection**

Grissom met Catherine and Warrick at Howard's office to go over all evidence and decide if they had enough to do something significantly useful in stopping Nick and Greg's plight.

Grissom carefully laid out his evidence, staring at the folders upon folders stored in a corner of the office, no doubt also on the case. He took pride in thinking that his team, in such a short period of time, might have already generated enough evidence to break the case.

First, they laid out what they knew based on Nick's confrontation with Pritchard. It wasn't witnessed, and thus could hardly be used, especially with Nick's fate up in the air. Next, they had positive IDs from Raykirk, though those were not to be used unless the case was already infallible, as Raykirk had required, for the sake of the witness's own safety. That, however, could still be enough for a warrant, on which, they knew, they would find more, once they had the right location.

And if – or once – they could get Nick and Greg back, as witnesses, then the case would become infallible. On the other hand, Howard emphasized, they needed a solid case – as well as evidence pointing them to a location – to find the pair of lost investigators. To Grissom, it felt too much like a Catch-22. The napkin, though a very intelligent piece left by Nick, even with the soil, was not enough. They needed just a little more.

A little more came in the form of a call from Desert Palms. A collapsed hitchhiker had been picked up. Identification on the body – not yet a DB – indicated that his identity was in fact Nick Stokes, CSI.

Grissom happily broke the silence and the news.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Grissom immediately made his way to the hospital, leaving Catherine and Warrick to continue processing evidence.

Grissom bumped into a doctor first, and was quickly directed toward Nick's room, but not before asking the other key question of the hour: "Did he come in with someone else, maybe someone without identification?" He took out a photo of Greg. "Maybe him?"

"Sorry. It was just Mr. Stokes." Grissom nodded. _So much for '6 for 6'._

"Did you see any potential evidence on him?"

"All his belongings are in his room. That's it."

Disappointed, Grissom made his way hastily to Nick's room.

The CSI looked exhausted, and injured. Grissom didn't bother asking about that, but set about finding any evidence possible immediately. As he carefully examined Nick's hand for any sign of he perp, he heard the yawn.

"Griss?" Nick asked with a yawn.

"Nick! I'm really glad to see you're awake," Grissom responded gently, but still hurried. "Do you know what happened to Greg?"

"Greg…" Nick's eyes were suddenly heartbroken.

Grissom took a deep breath, preparing for the worst.

"He was alive… last I saw him. He… he tricked them… so I could get out." Realization spread on Nick's face. "Here!" He exclaimed, reaching for the evidence he had carried in his arms for so many miles. He furrowed his brows, realizing it was no longer in his hands. "Uh… I had evidence. Greg gave it to me to get to you. He processed his own scene," Nick added somberly. Grissom raised his eyes, disbelieving. He quickly saw the kit sitting on the chair next to Nick's bed. _How far did he have to walk with that?_ He wondered to himself.

Grissom held it out for Nick, who smiled. "Yeah. That's it. Everything's in there. Should be enough to find Greg."

Grissom was still shocked. They really were almost there. He picked up his list of questions. "So, I just need your witness testimony then."

Nick nodded. "I was in the garbage truck. Processing." Grissom nodded; he had figured out as much. "Smalls came up to me, knocked me out. I had already found the napkin. It had blood, definitely relatively recent, at least in comparison to everything else in that truck," he said with a slightly pained laugh that quickly turned into a wheeze.

"Take your time Nick," Grissom felt compelled to caution.

"You know you don't want me to slow down," Nick said grinning through the pain. "You want to find Greg as much as everyone else. Otherwise you're the one that should be in here."

Grissom let loose a warm, and affirming, smile. "Keep going."

Nick nodded, happily. "I blew my nose on it, so you'd be able to trace it to me –"

"Which we did."

"I knew I could count on you, Griss."

Grissom smiled again, growing happier by the minute to be able to help his team. "Go on."

"Sure, sure. I saw Smalls spit on it – silly bastard, spit while he talked, not that it would have made a difference, cause I also punched him in the nose, so the blood – his blood – got on the napkin also. That's pretty much it." He paused, thinking.

"Nicky, that's enough. They had Greg?"

"Yeah."

"Against his will?"

"Yeah."

"Any idea where they were?"

"Vaguely. I was walking back – err, trying to walk, but I was real tired. They hit me up a bunch, and Greg said I probably had a concussion or something.'"

"Yeah. Your doctor verified that."

Nick looked up unfazed, knowing that his injuries were nothing in comparison to the ones Greg could be accruing at that moment.

"Do you know where?"

Nick looked down. Grissom could see the answer to that question written in the guilt of Nick's eyes. Suddenly, Nick looked up. "Who dropped me off here?"

"A tourist. No identification. They're already gone."

"Dammit."

"You think you'd recognize where you were if you saw it?"

Nick looked up suspiciously. "Yeah, but –"

"We analyzed soil from the truck. It looked like it had been dragged in by Smalls."

Nick nodded. All of the sudden, Grissom noticed a strange speck on Nick. He leaned in to examine it. Nick looked up at him startled and somewhat scared, assuming the worst, for instance that there was a growing bloody gash or a bomb on his shirt. But in fact, it was something very different.

Pulling out tweezers, Grissom pulled something out of Nick's hair – something Nick couldn't even see. He looked questioningly at his boss.

"Larvae. This might tell us something." Grissom headed for the door, in another hurry all of the sudden. Nick looked up as he made for the door. "Nick, call me if you have any questions or sudden realizations." Nick merely nodded.

"Wait, Griss?"

"Yes, Nick?"

"Let me come, when you get Greg, I mean. I owe him."

Grissom merely nodded.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

He ran into the lab, scurrying to place the sample, still in tweezers, under a microscope. The insect was unfamiliar. He chugged through databases at a work ethic that rivaled Sara's. Finally, he found it. _East coast export. Specifically found in train cargo._

Grissom reached for the phone, ready to finally call Brass for the warrant as he looked up locations linked to Gedda's associates near train stations and water sources. There was only one, and he was off.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

_Drip._

_Drip_

_Drip._

_Drip._

Greg stared at the blood, contemplating Chinese water torture. _This must be different._ If anything, he was almost fascinated with the tiny droplets as they ran down his shoulders, off of the arms of the chair, and down to the floor, forming perfect circles as they hit the ground below.

He remembered one of the last times the team had had to deal with Drops.

_Ha. Drops._ He chuckled to himself, musing over the relation between the unfortunately named gangster and the dots of blood speckling the ground below him.

During that case, they had seen a perfect drop of blood -- perfect in its roundness. It meant it had fallen from the floor above, because the angle was exactly perpendicular.

_A perfect ninety degree angle. Perfect. _

_Everything would be perfect_, he mused. Nick had made it back. Greg knew he had. Because he was Nick, and Nick was strong and stubborn.

And now everything was perfect. The concept of perfection brought his mind to the couple that embodied perfection -- Catherine and Warrick. He knew that, years down the line, they could thank him, in part, for bringing them together. Maybe they'd toast their lost friend at their wedding reception. He smiled faintly.

He'd done good.

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

The drips continued, but Greg lapsed back into unconsciousness.

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Author's Note: Thanks to the wonderful PisceanPal23 for betaing most of this story, which is now officially completely written (with one more chapter to be posted). Thanks as well to LostLadyKnight, LaughableBlackStorm, Maria-Elric05, GregsLabRat and Ginny75 for reviews! I'm in a big time crunch right now, because I have to finish writing Juarez before I go off to school, so I'll once again reply to reviews and add comments later. I just posted a new story, called 'James Dean and the Camaro Vixen.' It's also a CSI fic, but it's a oneshot, and relatively short. Anyways, I'd LOVE if you reviewed that one, even instead of this chapter. It's my favorite thing that I've written creatively in a very, very long time, and I'd love reviews on it.

Anyways, thanks for sticking with this story for so long, and I hope you guys enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it, and definitely as much as I loved hearing back about it! Only one chapter left :)

Harper


	45. A Ring, Forgiveness and a Bee

**CHAPTER 46- Bees, Rings and the Real Reunion  
**

No sign of life emerged from the building in the desert. Grissom didn't know if Greg would be there – on that matter, he was pessimistic. He didn't know if Smalls, Greene or Louie would be there – such a guess would be beyond optimistic. Finally, the SWAT team entered, guns drawn. They quickly motioned to the police officers behind them.

The mood of the rescue team was somber and restrained, unlike the intense, and ultimately victorious, rescue scenes played out in movies on a regular basis. It felt like everyone was operating in slow-motion. What was done was done. There was, according to the voices echoing from the building, one DB and one other body in critical. Either way, one might make it, with the EMTs working as fast as possible, and the other would not. But the police force had nothing to rush. Instead, they mourned the possible loss of one of their own with reverence as they humbly went about their work, scattering wordlessly like ants.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Nick, newly – and briefly – escaped from the hospital, could barely make out their words. When someone mentioned a DB, there was no doubt in his mind that it was Greg. Instead, he entered the room to see the glassy eyes of Smalls glazing up at him. Or at least what was left of him. The gun lying on the ground, in his hands, had likely silenced him. Most of his head was gone. Nick looked around further.

The next thing Nick noticed was the chair. It was the same chair Gedda had pinned Raykirk to, when he refused to pay ten grand for a service he insisted he had never gotten. Nick remembered Gedda's threat to the man with a shudder. If that's what he did to someone who bucked a fake bill, then he didn't want to think about the fate of his mole friend.

Sure enough, looking up from the chair legs, he focused somberly on the figure sitting on the bloodied leather – Greg. He looked bloodied, broken and, despite the unconsciousness, still in pain.

He watched the EMTs pry his friend off of the chair, wishing he could hear the pulse they checked for from where he stood, feet away. Nick was afraid to go near the body. He didn't know whether it was alive or dead, whether _Greg_ was alive or dead. But what he did know was that, no matter what state Greg was in, he probably wouldn't want to be rescued by the so-called friend that had left him to this pain. Nick turned around, feeling guiltier than ever.

Nick saw the way the EMTs handled Greg so gently, so carefully. _He must be alive_, he told himself again and again, as he watched blood drip from countless directions, all on Greg.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning around, he sobbed into Warrick's shoulder.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Warrick let loose a sigh of relief for the case that had been a long time coming. _It is all over._ No more hiding. No more lying. No more vigilante investigations.

He could see Greg's eyelids wavering as they maneuvered the youngest CSI toward the stretcher. A paramedic touched a particularly nasty burn mark, and Warrick could see Greg groan.

More noticeable than the groan was the flinch. It caught Warrick off guard and directed his glance to the right. Nick was staring, looking disturbed. Warrick had often doubted his own abilities to read people. _Hell, I could barely tell Cath was in love with me,_ he thought, shaking his head. But he could see the guilt -- and misery _and_ overwhelming fatigue -- written into Nick's features. Nick was an easy man to read, especially for his once-best friend. He wore his heart on his sleeve, and his guilt was scribbled in neon colors there.

Extending a shoulder, he let his friend cry it out.

He could hear the stress and anxiety releasing in fits of tears. He knew how Nick felt. Everyone had come so close to losing something in this case. To Greg, it was the tangible -- a full life, and physical pain -- but Warrick didn't see his potential loss as any worse. He imagined the horror had Greg and Nick never been able to unearth the truth -- if he had been left in hiding for the rest of his life. In truth, he had spent many a night pondering that possibility. _Hell,_ he thought. _What else did I have to think about?_ Without his job and identity, Warrick had spent his weeks in hiding filing paperwork for the Feds and reflecting on the many lost opportunities of his life -- there were too many.

In a way, he thought, Greg had sacrificed his own welfare for Warrick's. Had Greg's sacrifices not been made, it would have been Warrick that was dead to the world. Instead it was Greg that had almost shaken hands with the Reaper.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

His eyes flickered. Pain radiated all over his body, and he tried to remember what had happened last.

Maybe he didn't want to remember.

He remembered Smalls on the ground. He remembered the gun.

The rest he struck from his memory.

He was responsible only for himself, and he was going to die. He knew it. But what were the noises?

"Wake up, Greg."

That voice sounded familiar. Who was it? A female voice... or that's what it sounded like.

He rested his head again.

"Wake up, Greg. You've gotta stay awake."

_Why?_

It was as if the voice read his mind. "You know the drill."

Was he in Heaven?

In Hell?

In some perverse stage of limbo, for having been, in some way, complicit in the crimes of Gedda's gang?

A buzzing hum cut though the haze, and he felt fuzzy legs on his chin. He just didn't know.

"Greg? Please wake up," the voice sounded again and, for that sweet familiarity, he tried to push himself awake.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

She was the first friend to reach Greg. How was it she was always there, on his worst days? The lab explosion, the beating... and now this.

She stared at the various machines he was now being hooked up to by paramedics. Though he didn't look healthy, all vitals were relatively good. Though scars and burns littered his exterior, he was still good ol' Greggo inside.

"Wake up, Greg," she said urgently. "You've gotta stay awake." Pausing, she added, almost teasingly. "You know the drill."

He groaned in his sleep.

"Greg? Please wake up." She was growing more scared. He _had_ to wake up.

He groaned in his sleep again. Then snored. It was one of the more delicate snores she had seen in her life -- or was it?

He was conscious -- and sniffing the air.

He grinned.

"Am I in Heaven? Cause I didn't think I'd be smelling you for a while."

She couldn't help but smile.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

The rest of the team stood transfixed at the sight of Greg. Nick was paralyzed by his own grief and guilt, as Catherine could clearly see. And Warrick _-- bless his soul --_ was paralyzed by the Texan's strong, unmoving arms.

And then Grissom -- Catherine didn't know what held him still, or even motivated him to do the many strange things he did half the time. The man -- who had become her best friend over the last decade -- seemed to be staring in every direction -- omnipresent, ever watchful. He watched sympathetically as Nick sobbed into Warrick. Grissom even seemed to detect the tiny tears her lover let out -- the ones he tried to hide as he protected his tough guy exterior and convinced Nick that everything would be alright. Grissom fit the true definition of 'static' -- rendered immobile by countering forces. His thoughts and eyes in every direction, he could move to none of them. But she saw his vision focus in on a figure approaching on the horizon, from inside the ambulance.

Though still surrounded by Nick and Greg's blood, Catherine hid a smile. As Warrick gently nudged Nick toward the ambulance -- and his real best friend -- Catherine saw her window of opportunity. Warrick was hard to read, but Catherine knew him, and she had always been a go-getter.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Looking over Nick's shoulder, Warrick smiled at the familiar outline -- the svelte figure he had come to love so much over the last decade, and one he had come to know far better over the last week. The last time the team had been through something like this was when Nick had been buried. It had helped Warrick realize how short life was, and how little time he might have for love. That realization had led him to his impulsive marriage, and he had long cursed himself for the decision. _Warrick_, he had told himself time and time again. _Don't repeat that mistake._ He tried to force himself from thinking that getting more involved with Catherine would, essentially, serve as a repetition. But Catherine wasn't Tina. And she wasn't impulsive either. He wouldn't make the same mistake again. He wouldn't. He couldn't.

Warrick could make out the EMTs gesturing at Nick, who broke the embrace.

Staring back at the svelte figure, he warmed as she smiled back and walked toward him. She took Nick's place, reaching for a hug and a hand.

Her hand felt so right in his, so warm. "I love you," she whispered softly in his ear. He felt the smooth, silky skin of her hand, until he hit on something else -- something warm, but metallic -- a ring. She let go of it in his hand, looking up meaningfully. He should have known. Catherine had always been a go-getter. The impulsive choice was not his to make. "I do," he whispered back.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

He was cognizant -- he thought he was, at least. Lights blared around him. Why?

He knew what was going on. He thought he did.

The evidence. Had it made it? Had it worked?

The world fell in and out of focus. Familiar voices shot in and out of the strange frequency of range he could understand.

Sobs. That he could hear. Nick. Nick was crying.

"It's my fault" was all Greg heard. "It's all my fault he's so hurt."

Nick. The guilt.

"Nicky?"

He hoped he was allowed to use the nickname now.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Having woke Greg -- and having seen him smile again, -- she retreated and watched the scene unfold before her. She stared at old faces, holding back tears, for bonds lost and found. She would find all five of hers again.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

He stood transfixed before the body of his former friend.

"Nick," the body gasped out. "Don't cry. It's not your fault. I won."

"How did you _win_ Greggo? You're burnt."

"The case. You solved it?"

"Yeah. I think."

"You got the evidence in?"

"Uh... yeah." Why was Greg asking about the evidence? Was that really his top concern right now?

"Then this worked. You did good Nick. You nailed it. I couldn't have done it without you."

Nick stared at the body in incredulity.

"We're good Nicky. It's all good."

Even with all the burns, Nick felt the crusty hand touch his own, a telling gesture of forgiveness. He felt the hand give a squeeze.

"We're good Nicky. The team is together again."

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

He smiled as he felt the familiar hand squeeze his own.

She had never been one for PDAs -- neither had he -- but neither of them minded now, as she reached up to kiss his cheek lightly.

The familiar hand in his, he looked out over the scene unfolding before him.

When was the last time he'd seen his whole team together?

He could see the fear in Nick's eyes, but he knew that Greg would be alright. _As quirky as he is, that kid is surprisingly tough._

Warrick, contrary to the Feds' original proclamation, was alive and well -- more than well, enveloped in Catherine's arms.

Catherine was back to her usual reliable self, having re-discovered the second half she had always sought.

And Grissom himself -- he was a patient man, and he could weather storms with his team in tact. And certainly with the little slice of heaven carved out by the woman holding his hand.

He felt the top of his hand lightly tickled, and looked down at the honey bee perched on the union of hands.

_Everything is alright now. I'm back to six for six._

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

* * *

I think you can guess who the 'she' that Greg and Grissom refer to is :)

Also, the bee is what stops briefly on Greggo.

I just want to say a big thank you to everyone for sticking with me on this story. Two especially big thank you's to PisceanPal23 for betaing just about the whole story, and to LostLadyKnight for reading and reviewing every single chapter, since the beginning, and for being an amazing muse to the YoBling chapters and the story as a whole.

Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story at some point. I can assure you, every reader and reviewer was very much appreciated. Seriously, you guys rock. And I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Seriously, writing this story and reading all of your lovely reviews very much made my summer! Thank you so much, and I hope to hear from all of you, be it reviews or your own stories, in the future.

:)

Harper

* * *

Now that this is over, I have a few new stories in the works:

**My next mini-story (multi-chapter, but significantly shorter than 'For Warrick;' it will also focus more on Greg, and less on the rest of the team):  
**

Stress Fractures: They'd said he'd lost his sense of humor since the beating. He hadn't lost it – he just saved it for one person, one far removed from Vegas and the vengeful stalker lurking there. Angst, suspense, mystery, hurt/comfort, drama, friendship, slight romance.

**My next massive story, starring the whole team:**

Juarez: The entire team struggles with the aftermath of a brutal night, when Greg, Nick and Catherine are held hostage. Greg hides out, miles away from home, bringing justice and hoping never to confront the horrifying events of his last night in Vegas, as the rest of the team searches for his corpse and closure. Catherine and Warrick struggle to keep the team together, even when it means putting it before their personal lives. Wendy tries to fill Greg's footsteps and fulfill her own dreams as she finishes her proficiencies, while Nick is devastated by grief. Grissom decides that an addition to the team is the thing everyone needs -- or is it just what he needs? Finally, Catherine recognizes a pair of melancholy eyes on the man who took her, Nick and Greg hostage on that gruesome night, bringing back memories of a tragic love story of years far past. Various ships, including slash and het, and a warning for heavy themes.

**To Be Started:**

The Warrick Files- (cowritten with the amazing LostLadyKnight) Catherine hides a secret -- one near and dear to her heart -- in the wake of the S9 season premiere. Anti-Character Death. YoBling! Goes from S9 and on.

Closure: It was done. The 2.5 million was paid. The civil suit had been filed, finished and filed away, even if the shelf housing its memory refused to linger away from the back of Greg's mind. It was still supposed to be over.

* * *


End file.
